


Out Of The East, Never See The Sun Rise

by ladypigswagon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Western, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Eventual Happy Ending, Fae & Fairies, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Gore, Native American Mythology - Freeform, Rimming, Soulmates, Steter Week, Stiles Stilinski is a God, egyptian mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, there are three absolutes.</p><p>One. Stiles is a god, forged of starlight and collapsing galaxies and he is eternal. </p><p>Two. Peter is human, fragile bone and viscous blood and he is temporary.</p><p>Three. Stiles and Peter are in love; love that claws its way inside one’s heart like fish hooks; all encompassing love that is beautiful but dangerous.</p><p>Stiles is a god. Peter is human. They love each other. </p><p>Three absolutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spoon Fed Peace, Swallowing Knives

**Author's Note:**

> STETER WEEK 2016 BITCHES
> 
> Day 1: Classic/Antiquity
> 
> THIS IS ONE GIANT ASS STORY WITH EACH CHAPTER FOLLOWING THE THEMES!!!!
> 
> Buckle up Steter fans, this is gonna be a long and bumpy ride!

 

 

In the beginning, there are three absolutes.

 

 **One**. Stiles is a god, forged of starlight and collapsing galaxies and he is eternal.

 

 **Two**. Peter is human, fragile bone and viscous blood and he is temporary.

 

 **Three**. Stiles and Peter are in love; love that claws its way inside one’s heart like fish hooks; all encompassing love that is beautiful but dangerous.

 

Stiles is a god. Peter is human. They love each other.

 

Three absolutes.

 

//

 

Stiles is a rather minor god. Counterpart to Jennifer, Goddess of fraud and deception. Parented by Gaia and Ather or Erebos and Nyx, no one is quite sure. Even Stiles himself is unsure but it’s not like his ‘ _parents_ ’ were very hands on. He is spirit of trickery and guile. Master of cunning deception, craftiness and treachery. His alter is barely visited. Only criminals and magicians ever deign to lay offerings.

 

Not that Stiles minds.

 

He’s more of a concept that a deity anyway and you can’t kill an idea. If the gods were truly reliant on belief and worship, most minor gods would have died eons ago.

 

Stiles is allowed a small villa on Olympus. It helps that Hermes is the god of thieves; most thieves rely on Stiles particular skill set. Hermes also likes him, which is an added bonus.

 

Stiles doesn’t particularly enjoy Olympus. Zeus and Hera’s squabbling is irritating, the same argument over and over. The parties get monotonous. Gods with inflated egos, spilling sweet wine on the temple floors. Riotous laughter at the antics of mortals, interfering in their lives, betting on them because humans are such temporary things. Stiles will agree with that. To the eyes of a god, these humans are barely in their infancy.

 

Nevertheless Stiles likes the mortal realm. It’s always different, ever changing. And it’s an escape from his overbearing sibling.

 

//

 

Stiles meets Peter at a market in Edessa. Stiles is languishing in the shade of a tree, enjoying the bustle of the market from a distance. Occasionally mortals will stare at him, somewhat entranced. He’s a god, despite his human appearance and his power bleeds through his skin. Cut him and constellations would spill from the wound.

 

Stiles tosses an olive in the air, catching it easily in his mouth. He winks at the group of children playing marbles a few feet away, who are watching him with curious eyes. A few smile, giggling when he makes the olive in his hand disappear and reappear in the opposite hand.

 

Eventually boredom sets in so Stiles decides to wander the market, casting bronze eyes over the stalls. Stallholders try to charm him into buying their wares but Stiles has no need of earthly trinkets. He politely declines.

 

Stiles has no problem navigating the market, most mortals move unconsciously out of his way. It does make getting around very easy. It’s not a very busy day, fairly average until the angered cry of **“THEIF”** cuts across the general chatter.

 

A boy with messy dark hair runs straight into Stiles, the momentum forcing them both to the ground. Stiles feels firm muscles beneath his hands, electric blue eyes staring into his own bronze ones. Stiles grins, winking at the boy, before rolling them both under a stall.

 

Stiles places a finger to his lips, gesturing to the feet of the Astynomia thunder past. Stiles grabs the boy’s hand, pulling him out from under the stall and leading him through the market. The boy follows willingly, perhaps a little in awe of Stiles help.

 

Stiles may not be the god of thieves but they are usually the ones leaving him offerings; it pays to help them out every so often. Remind them that minor gods have a hand in their fate. Not that this boy knows who Stiles is.

 

Yet.

 

Stiles pulls the boy into an alleyway, the smell of fresh bread in the air. Stiles drops the boy’s hand, leaning against the stonewall behind him.

 

“Why did you help me?” The boy asks immediately, placing one hand on the wall so that he boxes Stiles in. He’s about Stiles height, maybe late twenties. Stiles has never been good with mortal ages.

 

“You’re handsome,” Stiles answers, tracing the underside of the boy’s jaw. The boy grips Stiles wrist. Stiles pouts.

 

“That can’t be the only reason,” The boy continues. He seems to be looking for an ulterior motive, studying Stiles face with sharp eyes.

 

“Can’t it?” Stiles replies, looking up from under his eyelashes. The boy lets go of Stiles wrist, pushing off the wall and moving backwards.

 

“I suppose I owe you a debt then,” The boy says, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“I suppose you do,” Stiles teases, “Perhaps you could start with a name and maybe what you were stealing.”

 

“Peter,” The boy says, looking down at his feet, “And I was stealing food.”

 

He says it shamefully, as if being poor is something he can control. This is something Stiles loathes about mortals. Even on Olympus, the minor gods are taken care of, given a place to live even if their altars are bare more often than not.

 

“Then perhaps we should get lunch,” Stiles suggests, “My treat of course.”

 

Peter raises an eyebrow.

 

“No tricks,” Stiles says, “No obligations. Just lunch. Unless you have somewhere you need to be.”

 

Peter looks down the alleyway, shaking his head. Stiles smiles.

 

//

 

Peter is clever. Wickedly sharp, witty and cunning. Stiles adores him.

 

They lie together in a field, the night sky above them. The summer heat makes the air syrupy and sluggish. Peter likes looking at the stars, points out the constellations with one hand. Stiles is watching Peter rather than the heavens, prefers to study the slope of his nose, the cut of his jawline than the stars.

 

Stiles has never met a mortal so charming, so engaging. He understands a little why Zeus sometimes chooses them over Hera.

 

“Are you listening to me?” Peter asks. His smirk is smug rather than offended.

 

“Why should I stare at the heavens when the most beautiful star is right here,” Stiles replies. Peter laughs, a deep, rich sound.

 

“Still trying to charm me with sweet words,” Peter says, turning onto his side. Their faces are close; Stiles can feel Peter’s breath on his cheek.

 

“Is it working?” Stiles teases. Peter hums, tapping his lip with one finger. Stiles pushes him playfully.

 

“Don’t leave me waiting, I’m not patient.”

 

“Clearly,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. Stiles gasps dramatically, pretending to pout. Peter laughs again, placing an arm over Stiles, pulling him close. Stiles eyes flick down to Peter’s lips. It would be so easy to lean forward, close the distance. Stiles wants to but he doesn’t press. Unlike Zeus, he does not take without asking.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Stiles murmurs. The world feels silent in the moment, the insects ceasing their buzzing. Peter leans forward. Stiles closes his eyes.

 

Then the heavens open. Large, heavy droplets cascade down, drenching them in minutes. Stiles curses Zeus under his breath, helping Peter to his feet.

 

“We should find shelter,” Peter yells over the pounding rain.

 

They take refuge in a temple of Hermes. It’s a simple one on the edge of a dirt track. Polished marble but not ornate.

 

Stiles smirks, rolling his eyes when he sees a small shrine in the corner, dedicated to him. A few offerings, simple things but nevertheless very touching. Peter follows his gaze, frowning at the shrine.

 

“Who is that for?” Peter asks.

 

“Dolos,” Stiles replies, resisting the urge to grimace at his given name, “Spirit of trickery and guile.”

 

“I’m not sure I know his story,” Peter says, kneeling beside the shrine. Stiles crouches down, running a finger over the petals of the flowers that reside there.

 

“He was an apprentice of Prometheus,” Stiles says. Explaining his origins is not something he delights in but Peter seems interested. “He became known for his skill when he attempted to make a copy of the statue of Veritas but ran out of clay for the feet. He expected Prometheus to be angry but Prometheus was amazed at the similarity of the two statues. He put them both into the kiln and once they had been baked, infused them both with life. The finished statue walked with measured steps but her unfinished twin stood still. The forgery gained the name of Mendacuim or falsehood. And Dolos became the master of his crafty and tricky ways.”

 

“And the moral?” Peter asks. The words are expectant, as if Peter knows that these stories have teachings for mortals. For Gods, they are simply events in their lives. Humans applied morals and ethics, trying to impose order in a kaleidoscopic universe.

 

“I believe it is something akin to _something false can start off successfully but with time, truth is sure to prevail_ ,” Stiles drawls. Stiles always believed that Prometheus put his unfinished creation into the kiln out of spite rather than to teach a moral lesson.

 

Peter hums, running a hand through wet hair. Stiles does not wish to dwell on his humble beginnings, not when he has more carnal pursuits to entertain him. He leans forward, a hand turning Peter’s face towards him. His eyes flick down to Peter’s lips. They look soft.

 

The kiss is chaste, a quick press of lips. Stiles drops his hand, pulling away but Peter follows. One hand on the crook of Stiles elbow, the other pulling at Stiles wet clothes. Their lips meet again. Eyes flutter closed.

 

Stiles has never kissed anyone like this. It’s gentle but not without passion. Peter is forward, nipping at Stiles bottom lip, seeking entrance. Stiles allows him. Peter licks into Stiles mouth, pressing himself close. Stiles lets Peter dominate; content to simply enjoy the sensations. He slides his hands down Peter’s back. Pleasure coils low in his gut. It is not yet insistent.

 

They break apart for air, foreheads touching. Peter grins in a wolfish manner.

 

“I want you to take me,” Peter breathes against Stiles cheek.

 

“We have no oil,” Stiles replies, “And I will not hurt you. But that does not mean we cannot have fun.”

 

Stiles grins wickedly, reaching beneath the damp folds of clothing to take Peter in hand. Peter moans, head dropping to Stiles shoulder. Stiles slides a thumb over the head, listening to every hitch in Peter’s breath, every gasp of pleasure.

 

Stiles other hand tilts Peter’s chin up so they can kiss once more. Stiles likes kissing Peter. It’s addictive. Stiles swallows all of Peter’s moans.

 

Somehow, lost in the haziness of pleasure, both of them discard their wet clothes. Peter pulls Stiles into his lap, their cocks sliding together. It sends sparks up Stiles spine. Peter takes them both in hand, callused palms adding a delicious friction.

 

Peter runs a hand through Stiles hair, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils wide with lust. The touch is careful, keeping Stiles in place but not forcefully. Stiles bites marks into Peter’s neck, laving at the bruises to make them dark. He wants others to know that his boy belongs to him. This mortal is his. His to kiss, to fuck, to pleasure, to provide for.

 

The pleasure in Stiles gut is building, Peter’s movements becoming erratic and shaky. Stiles nuzzles the underside of Peter’s jaw, presses butterfly kisses against the soft skin until he reaches Peter’s lips. Stiles thinks Peter’s lips are his favorite feature.

 

They spill over Peter’s hand together. Lips almost touching, breathing hotly into each other’s mouths. Peter’s eyes glaze over, his mouth slack.

 

“Can I keep you?” Stiles murmurs, cupping Peter’s face.

 

“As long as I can keep you,” Peter replies. They rest their foreheads together, bathing in the afterglow.

 

The rain continues to pour outside but all Stiles can hear is the beating of Peter’s heart. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

 

//

 

Peter has never seen the ocean so Stiles insists they travel to Corinth. They have stopped to rest in the shade of a tree when Peter asks about Stiles family.

 

“There are many of them,” Stiles says, carefully sticking to half-truths, “I’m not sure of my parentage but I have a sister. She is truly vile, I hope you never meet.”

 

In truth, Jennifer is his counterpart but it is easier to describe her as his sister. They used to be as close as twins but Jennifer grew cruel and devious. Stiles wants nothing to do with her or the rest of Olympus. He has Peter’s devotion and that is enough for him now.

 

“My family died in a fire,” Peter admits. His voice is tight like the string on a harp.

 

Stiles does not know the pain of loss. He is immortal, carved from the fabric of the universe. Olympus is permanent, as are all who reside there. It’s something he does not wish to dwell upon, the thought that Peter will age and decay. That one day Peter will cease to exist.

 

Stiles ignores the knowledge that Peter will teach him the pain of loss.

 

Instead he offers his condolences, holding Peter tight and kissing the crown of his head.

 

They reach Corinth a day later. The wind whips Stiles hair. It smells like salt. Stiles laughs when Peter dives headfirst into the sea, floating along the top of the waves. The water reminds Stiles of Peter’s eyes. He jumps in after Peter and they swim together, occasionally sharing salty kisses in the shallows.

 

At noon, Stiles drags Peter from the water to languish on the shore. He splits apart pomegranates, pressing the seeds to Peter’s lips, staining them red. The kisses that follow are sticky sweet.

 

They lie on the sand as Apollo makes the sun sink. Peter tells Stiles about his past. It’s the kind of honesty that Stiles appreciates but cannot reciprocate. He fears that if Peter knew he was a God, then their relationship would change. That Peter would feel obliged to worship him or worse, would leave.

 

Mortals do not survive the love of a God.

 

“Where do you want to go next?” Peter asks, tracing patterns on Stiles stomach with his fingers.

 

“We can go anywhere you’d like,” Stiles replies.

 

“I think we should stay here a little longer,” Peter states, his fingertips feather light on Stiles tanned skin. “I like the taste of you after we’ve been swimming.”

 

“Well, I would to be cruel to deny you,” Stiles teases. Peter grins, replacing his fingers with his lips and tender kisses.

 

//

 

Corinth is fun, living beside the beach. Peter takes a job on the fishing boats, learning how to catch fish and gut them. He’s a fast learner, quick and efficient. He builds up strong muscles from hauling in lines. Stiles particularly likes that part, enjoys Peter picking him up with ease.

 

Stiles has never maintained the illusion of humanity for so long. He has to remind himself to eat. Drink. Rest. Sleeping is not so bad; Peter likes to pin Stiles in place, rest his weary head on Stiles chest. Stiles cannot remember if he has ever been this intimate with someone before. Peter has a sharp mind. Stiles can discuss anything with him and know that he is being understood completely. Peter enjoys Stiles passion, finding it both engaging and arousing.

 

They stay in Corinth for four months before Peter has the urge to travel again. Stiles is willing to go anywhere as long as Peter is happy.

 

He carefully leads Peter towards choosing Athens as their next destination. Peter suggested Delphi but that’s too close to Olympus for Stiles liking. The Oracle is a direct line to Apollo and Stiles fears that his secrets will spill from her lips. He’s not ready to tell Peter of his heritage, still fears that Peter would run. He doesn’t know how to articulate what he feels around Peter. Can’t seem to form the words in a way that seems fitting.

 

Stiles is selfish. He is in love. In love with a boy with eyes deeper than the ocean. With soft lips that whisper endearments in the quiet moonlight. A boy who always looks at Stiles with understanding and awe and reverence. Not the awe of seeing a god in a human vessel but the sheer awe of finding someone that they love completely. This love has burrowed beneath Stiles skin, ripped him apart and put him back together after molding a place for itself beneath his ribs.

 

Stiles will not let anyone take it away.

 

//

 

Athens suit them. The sprawling city full of academic wonder and opportunities. Peter is well suited here. They have found a place that will finally challenge him, allow him to grow intellectually. Stiles adores Peter’s intelligence but knows that the fire took away any possibility of furthering his education. Stiles sees to it that Peter has that chance again.

 

Money is not something Gods worry about. Stiles only has to speak, weave lies and half-truths together and spin them in the right way to get what he wants. He is a God, power and influence are knitted into his DNA.

 

They make a home for themselves. It’s small but perfect. Stiles takes up cooking. It’s fascinating, the way he can blend ingredients to make something entirely new. It’s creation in a way then he hasn’t experienced since being an apprentice. Food is far more rewarding than clay.

 

“You never talk about your life before meeting me,” Peter mentions, one day in late autumn. He’s tears a strip of bread that Stiles just baked, dipping it in oil. Stiles pauses, looking up at Peter.

 

“There’s not much to tell,” Stiles replies, “I was born, I grew up with my heinous sibling, I left, I found you.”

 

“Seems like your story is missing a few key details,” Peter says, raising an eyebrow at Stiles. He tears another piece of bread off the loaf, popping it into his mouth.

 

“Perhaps I fear what you would say if I were completely honest,” Stiles says. Dread coils in his stomach, a viper poised to strike amongst the flowers. Peter reaches across the table, taking Stiles hand and rubbing his thumb across the skin.

 

“I love you,” Peter says. It’s the first time those words have crossed his lips. Stiles cannot help but smile softly at the utterance.

 

“I love you,” Peter continues, “As you are. I love your sharp mind and I love your body. I love your kindness and cruelty in equal measure. Your past is unchangeable but it does not define who you are now. I will continue to love you after you tell me.”

 

“I’m not ready,” Stiles admits. His eyes prickle with tears that he does not shed.

 

“When you are ready,” Peter says, “I will be here to listen.”

 

Stiles nods. The subject is dropped and Peter starts to throw pieces of bread into the air, trying to catch them with his mouth. He fails more often than not, leaving Stiles clutching his sides as he laughs.

 

//

 

Bliss can only last for so long. Humans are fragile. Stiles worries about Peter’s mortality. Any moment could be their last. Humans bleed and break so easily, one cut to a vein; a stab through the heart, tripping and falling could be the end of them. Not that they live that way, treating every second as if it’s their last. They live as if they have all the time in the world.

 

They don’t.

 

//

 

Jennifer pays Stiles a visit at the end of winter. She lounges in their home as if she belongs. Sunlight reflects off of her jewelry; necklace, circlet, bracelets made of gold. Her dark hair is woven with blue peonies to match her midnight blue dress. She looks every bit the goddess that she is.

 

“You are not welcome here,” Stiles snarls. Jennifer smirks. The curve of her red lips is smug.

 

“Dolos,” Jennifer says, voice saccharine sweet, “Is that any way to treat your kin?”

 

Stiles laughs. It’s a cruel laugh, derisive. Like the wet, jagged inhale of broken ribs piercing bloody lungs.

 

“Kin,” Stiles spits, “Is that supposed to awaken loyalty in me?”

 

Jennifer shrugs. She picks apart a pomegranate, delicate fingers turning crimson.

 

They were unstoppable together, the ultimate tricksters. Jennifer liked her real siblings, Eris and Keres in particular but she was never as close with them as she was with Stiles. Two sides of the same coin; trickery and fraud. Until they grew older. Grew apart. Jennifer turned cold and cruel, eager to destroy and deceive. Stiles wonders if they simply grew into their natures or whether she was like that all along.

 

“You should come home,” Jennifer states, licking the pomegranate juice from her fingers. “Olympus is missing its favourite trickster.”

 

“I don’t want to return to Olympus,” Stiles retorts, “And you were always the trickster, not me.”

 

Jennifer waves her finger, as if he is a child in need of scolding.

 

“Not so, in our youth, you were quite the troublemaker. Ares still cannot eat cherries without grimacing.”

 

“I doubt you came here to reminisce about our childhood,” Stiles says. Jennifer tilts her head, surveying her surroundings with distain.

 

“I came here to save you from the inevitable.”

 

“Inevitable?” Stiles echoes.

 

“This foolishness has to come to an end,” Jennifer says, “Your human with either break your heart or die, whichever comes first. And you know that he is less than average, unlikely to grace the threshold of Elysium.”

 

Stiles fingers fold into a fist. Nails dig into the skin, tiny pinpricks of pain. A reminder to keep his tongue, keep his temper.

 

“Get out,” Stiles says, voice steady. The edges of Jennifer’s lips curl, a cruel smirk reeking of smugness. She’s under his skin, a parasite in the bloodstream. And she knows it.

 

“Does he even know you’re not human?”

 

“Get out,” Stiles repeats. Jennifer runs her tongue along the edge of her white teeth.

 

“Do you know what happens to mortals who fall in love with Gods?” She asks.

 

Her smile is no longer smug but feral. A wolf with crimson teeth standing over wounded prey, knowing it has but mere moments to live.

 

“They bleed.”

 

//

 

Peter comes home to find Stiles scrubbing ichor from the floor. It’s a stubborn fluid, has saturated the stone. Stained gold, a permanent reminder that Stiles broke his sister’s nose. It would be satisfying if her words were not still circling Stiles mind.

 

Peter bends down, placing his hand on Stiles. Peter cups Stiles chin, tilting it gently so that Stiles is looking at Peter. A quick kiss causes the tension in Stiles shoulders to loosen.

 

“My sister came to visit,” Stiles says, abandoning his attempt to clean the stone. Peter strokes Stiles face with this thumb.

 

“She upset you.”

 

“She threatened me,” Stiles growls. Fury boils in his blood. He should have done more than break her pretty face. “Treated me like an errant runaway child who should come home at once. Believes that all I’m doing is hurting myself.”

 

He wants to break something. Wants to feel something crumbling beneath his fingers.

 

“And what do you believe?” Peter asks. Stiles believes that he has never felt this way about anyone. Stiles believes that he has been cut, a simple slice of his skin and he is bleeding out. His feelings are trickling out of him and all he can do is lie on the floor and watch them pool around his body.

 

“I believe that I should tell you the truth,” Stiles replies.

 

//

 

Stiles doesn’t know where to begin. They lie on their bed. Peter watches Stiles, patiently waiting for Stiles to speak. Stiles stares at the ceiling, planning how to start and deciding each attempt is futile. Doesn’t sound right, doesn’t explain enough, isn’t clear enough.

 

He needs to get this right.

 

“I love you,” Stiles begins, thinking it best to start with the most important truth. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you. I doubt I ever will again.”

 

Peter smiles at this but the edges are tinged with melancholy. Stiles turns to face him, throwing an arm around Peter’s waist. He leans in close, fights to keep his voice steady.

 

“I am old, indeterminately so. I have been alive since this world came into being and will more than likely outlive it. I am only a minor God, my shrines are few and far between. But I am a God and Jennifer was right. I will only break your heart and mine.”

 

Peter cups Stiles face. The kiss on his forehead is full of affection. Longing. Hope.

 

“Dolos,” Peter murmurs. Stiles grimaces.

 

“I hate that name,” Stiles mutters. Peter chuckles. Stiles lips find themselves forming a smile.

 

“On some level I knew,” Peter admits, “You have a presence about you. You reek of power.”

 

Stiles looks away.

 

“I told you that I would still love you after,” Peter continue, smoothing Stiles hair back. “And I do. Your sister is right, I will die eventually and you will live on. But I want to spend the rest of my lifetime with you, if you’ll let me.”

 

“There is no where else I would rather be then here with you,” Stiles murmurs.

 

They make love with clasped hands, moonlight shimmering over their tanned skin.

 

//

 

Gods are timeless beings. They reside in their private heavens, enjoying the belief and sacrifices of man.

 

Stiles knows that Peter is not the first mortal to catch his eye. He has dabbled before; a night spent with a young woman who had hair the color of red wine, another with a black man who spoke sweet nothings against Stiles trembling body.

 

Peter is different.

                                

Stiles loves Peter.

 

He will find a way for them to be together. Even if it means abandoning Olympus completely.

 

//

 

“Is this supposed to be bread?” Stiles teases, poking the slightly charred offering. Peter glares, making a move to grab the bread off the table but Stiles snatches it back, biting into it.

 

It’s good despite it’s burnt edges. Peter sighs, shaking his head. He makes a grab for the bread but Stiles holds it out of reach. Peter reaches from the bread once more, mock glaring as Stiles hold it back further still. Peter lunges for it, Stiles dancing out of his reach.

 

Laughter fills the house as Peter chases Stiles. They tumble onto the bed, bread forgotten. Peter pins Stiles down, kissing him fiercely.

 

“So the God likes to play games with the mortal,” Peter teases. Stiles smiles fondly. He reaches up to stroke Peter’s cheek. Peter nuzzles his hand.

 

“I think I might give up Olympus,” Stiles whispers. Peter’s eyes grow wide.

 

“Give up your immortality?” Peter asks. Stiles nods. He knows that it cannot be the other way, make Peter immortal. That privilege is rarely granted, even to the most famous and revered of heroes.

 

“I want to grow old with you, and I have never felt that Olympus was truly my home.”

 

“Is that even possible?”

 

“There are ways,” Stiles says, running a hand through Peter’s hair. “Gods are hard to kill but not impossible. I would give everything from my old life up in order to spend an eternity with you.”

 

“That’s a lot to give up,” Peter says. Stiles sees his shock, wants to sooth away the worry from his brow.

 

“If the situations were reversed, would you do the same?”

 

It’s a cruel question but Stiles needs to know. It’s a burning fierce need, an impatient need. Peter moves, lowering himself so that he’s inches from Stiles face.

 

“I would.”

 

Stiles knows it’s an honest answer. His mouth widens into a grin. Peter smiles in return as he reaches above Stiles head.

 

“Catch me if you can,” Peter whispers, kissing Stiles on the nose before leaping up, the bread in his hands.

 

Laughter once again, fills the house.

 

//

 

“How much further to the temple?” Peter asks, tossing pomegranate seeds into the air and catching them with his mouth.

 

“A few more hours,” Stiles replies. Peter groans. Stiles chuckles at the impatience of his lover. They’ve been travelling for a few days, Stiles can understand Peter’s desire to reach their destination. The spring weather has been temperamental; warm sunshine and a lazy breeze swiftly turning to cold, biting rain.

 

But Olympia and the Temple of Zeus are a few hours away yet. A few more hours until Stiles lays offerings and speaks the incantations and asks Zeus to strip him of his immortality.

 

Stiles isn’t afraid, this is what he wants however he cannot shake a feeling of unease. It’s building in his stomach, a gnawing, biting anxiety. He feels like he’s being watched.

 

Peter takes Stiles hand, bringing to his lips to kiss the knuckles. Stiles smiles softly. This easy intimacy is what Stiles adores the most.

 

They wander down the dirt road hand in hand, the sun hot on the back of their necks. Stiles trails his other hand amongst the wildflowers growing beside the dirt track, plucking a lily with nimble fingers. He turns to Peter, making them stop so he can tuck the white flower behind Peter’s ear.

 

“How sickening.”

 

Stiles freezes. A shiver runs over his body, like ice water dripping down his spine. He dreads looking but he has to. He keeps his grip on Peter’s hand. It’s warm and grounding.

 

Jennifer meets his gaze with cruelty in her eyes. She is dressed for battle, the sunlight reflecting off the metal of her sword. She holds it with a graceful determination.

 

“What do you want?” Stiles spits. He pushes Peter behind him. Peter squeezes Stiles hand. It’s reassuring.

 

“To stop you making an irreversible mistake,” Jennifer states. She regards Peter with contempt but her gaze softens on Stiles. It’s almost affectionate. Wistful for another time, another place.

 

Another Stiles.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Jennifer says, “Don’t turn your back on Olympus, our home.”

 

“It hasn’t been my home for some time,” Stiles retorts, “You cannot stop me and I will not let you hurt Peter.”

 

Jennifer’s wistful look melts away. Replaced with something harsher. Crueler. An expression more befitting of Stiles opinion of her. She grips her sword, adopting an aggressive but poised fight stance.

 

It’s a challenge. One that Stiles cannot back down from if he wishes to reach the temple. He lets go of Peter’s hand, allowing his bag to slip from his shoulders. He reaches inside, reaches for something not tangible in the mortal realm. At least not tangible until he pulls it out.

 

His own sword emerges, it’s weight a reminder of another lifetime.

 

“You never cease to amaze me,” Peter drawls, stepping backwards.

 

“Glad to know I can still surprise you,” Stiles teases. Peter places a soft kiss on the corner of Stiles mouth. As he leans back, Peter’s lips brush Stiles ear and he whispers.

 

“Destroy her.”

 

Stiles grins, a dark, feral grin.

 

“With pleasure.”

 

Jennifer strikes first. The clash of celestial metal rings through the air. Stiles jumps, dodging a blow to his legs. They circle each other, predator watching predator.

 

Jennifer is fast in her attacks, they are precise and deadly. Stiles is faster though, blocking her attacks and forcing her away. Jennifer snarls, stepping forward and striking once more. Stiles deflects easily. Jennifer slashes backhanded in a return blow. Stiles thrusts his blade vertically, catching her blade before it cuts him in half.

 

“How dare you! Giving up your immortality, your power, your position, Olympus for some human! You are a God, he should be worshipping you!”

 

“He does worship me,” Stiles quips, using his momentum to force Jennifer to stumble backwards. “All night long if he’s so inclined.”

 

Stiles will admit, he missed the feeling of a sword in his hand. The headiness of battle. Though not one to normally engage in such things, each God on Olympus is well versed in the practice. It’s expected of them, given the number of times they fight each other, let alone when they engage mortals in combat.

 

Both sides manage to wound. Golden ichor drips.

 

“Give up,” Stiles says, spitting ichor. White teeth stained gold.

 

Jennifer has ichor dripping into her eyes from the cut on her forehead. She advances, moving swiftly. The strike is quick, designed to slash at Stiles forearm. He blocks it, knocking her sword to the ground. He slides it away, watching it skitter through the dirt. Stiles points his own blade at Jennifer’s throat.

 

“There are other ways to hurt you,” Jennifer murmurs. Ichor trickles from the corner of her mouth.

 

A whimper. A heart stopping whimper, an arrow in the hindquarters of a deer kind of whimper. Fear ripples through his gut and he turns.

 

Pain. Hot, white pain. Stiles drops to one knee, gasping. A bronze dagger protrudes from his side. Jennifer has made sure to stab him between the ribs, narrowly missing his heart. Stiles snarls.

 

Jennifer has one hand on a dagger, poised over Peter’s bare chest, above his heart. The other holds Peter’s face, making him look at Stiles. Her nails dig into Peter’s cheek, a bead of blood trickling down his face.

 

“Hurt him anymore and I’ll rip you apart,” Stiles growls. Jennifer smirks, shaking her head.

 

“Give up on this idiocy and I won’t have to,” She counters.

 

Stiles considers his options. The thought of reducing Jennifer to star dust and a distant memory is very appealing.

 

“If you come back to Olympus,” Jennifer says, saccharine sweet, “Then I will let you little pet go.”

 

“You are a vile bitch,” Peter spits, struggling against her hold. She presses the dagger against his skin, drawing blood. Crimson on tanned skin, a reminder of what could be lost if Stiles does not comply.

 

“And if I refuse,” Stiles enquires. His breathing is slightly labored. He wants to pull the dagger out but that is the only thing keeping the ichor inside his body.

 

“If you refuse,” Jennifer purrs, “Hades coming to collect your pet’s soul will be the least of your worries.”

 

Stiles spits ichor onto the ground. His mind is turning, thinking of a thousand possible ways to get out of this. He wants Peter alive. He wants Peter whole and happy.

 

Even if that means returning to Olympus.

 

“Don’t give in to her,” Peter says, wincing as Jennifer presses the knife harder against his skin.

 

Stiles stares up at Peter. Ice blue eyes meeting amber. Stiles may be selfish about his love for Peter but Peter is equally selfish. He does not want Stiles to give up. He does not want Stiles to leave him. And well, Stiles refuses to argue with that.

 

Jennifer watches the exchange, mouth curling into a facsimile of a smile.

 

“Oh, you really should have listened to me.”

 

She places a hand over Peter’s mouth, forcing him to swallow some kind of azure powder. Peter coughs and struggles but it makes it’s way into his lungs. Jennifer begins chanting, her pupils glowing the color of wolfsbane.

 

Peter drops to the ground, coughing violently. Blood splatters the ground, mingling with the ichor.

 

Stiles can hear a high-pitched whine. It takes him a few moments to realize that he is the one emitting it. He crawls across the ground to Peter, pulling him into his arms. Peter’s mouth is bloody, eyes streaming with tears. Stiles wipes away the tears, trying to avoid shedding any of his own.

 

“What did you do?” Stiles roars.

 

“He’s dying,” Jennifer replies gleefully, “But his soul won’t depart to the underworld. Hecate and I conceived a far more painful punishment. His soul will inhabit another body, over and over again. No memories of his past lives, just an old soul, repeating his life. You’ll have to seek him out, watch him live and die and be powerless to stop it.”

 

Blood bubbles at the corner of Peter’s mouth. Stiles presses their foreheads together, presses soft kisses to Peter’s eyelids.

 

“I’ll find a way to fix it,” Stiles murmurs. Peter reaches up, stroking Stiles face.

 

“I know you will,” Peter replies.

 

His hand drops. Stiles sobs, hugging Peter’s lifeless body close.

 

Mortals never survive the love of a God.

 

“You should find out where his soul went,” Jennifer says, her voice faint but murderous joy coating her words.

 

Stiles snarls, throwing his sword in her direction. It sails through the empty air, embedding in the trunk of a nearby tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's theme is medieval - see ya then


	2. Give Me Something, Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man stands with his arms folded across his chest. He is tall with lean muscles. Handsome. Very handsome. Peter finds himself contemplating the curve of the man’s jaw, the plush pink lips. It is rare for Peter to be so enamored by appearance alone.
> 
>  
> 
> Bronze eyes glimmer like gold in the sunlight streaming through the nearby window. Peter has never seen such eyes. They are hauntingly beautiful, the kind of image that would be retained long after Peter has stopped looking at them. They are old eyes. Old in a way Peter does not quite understand. They watch him, the man’s expression giving away nothing, but those eyes, they appear pained.
> 
>  
> 
> “Do you know the forest?” The King asks. The man turns his attention to the King. There is no respect in his posture; he regards the King with lukewarm acceptance, seemingly as if he will be polite because he chooses rather than because it is expected of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 2 - Medieval
> 
> This is more fantasy medieval than you know, actual medieval.

Court bores Peter. The advisors are too obvious in their manipulations, too eager to reap the rewards and in doing so, play their hands too early. They are far to easy to weed out, leaving Peter with very little to do.

 

His lessons have the potential to be interesting, but usually fall short. Being prepared to rule is frustrating rather than intriguing. Peter feels that his childhood memories misrepresented what it means to be a ruler. He’s looking forward to the power, the influence but the dealing with the complaints of the ruling elite is tiresome. He wonders how his father does it.

 

Peter lounges in his throne, idly playing with the hem of his robe. The last few grievances of the townsfolk have been petty and contrite. Peter dreads when the burden of listening to their whining will be passed onto him.

 

A farmer approaches the thrones. His wife or his sister, Peter can’t tell, stands behind him, a supportive smile on her elfin face.

 

“Your majesty,” The farmer says, bowing low. Peter traces swirling patterns on his thigh, planning to ignore whatever mundane complaint is uttered.

 

“The Beast struck again last night.”

 

An involuntary shiver runs over the court. Peter looks up.

 

“All my sheep, ripped apart. And I’m not the first this has happened too, nor will I be the last if the Beast continues to plague the kingdom. I implore the King to send his best men to slay it, before it’s appetite moves onto the townsfolk.”

 

Peter’s eyes flick to his father. He knows that contemplative expression. There have been reports of a monstrous wolf-like creature stalking the kingdom. Peter knows that his father has dismissed them, believing them to be exaggerated.

 

The mind does play tricks after all, especially in the dark with only the lonely moon as guidance.

 

However, the number of sightings and reports has become overwhelming. People are loosing their livelihoods and it’s only a matter of time before the Beast’s thirst for blood can only be slaked by human flesh.

 

“I will call my advisors,” The King states, “Be rest assured that this matter will be dealt with and you will be compensated for your loss.”

 

Peter’s lip curls.

 

There’s going to be a war meeting.

 

//

 

“The Beast appears to emerge from the forest, a few miles east of here.”

 

The advisor points to the forest on the map.

 

“We cannot enter there,” another says, “It’s protected by the fae, to go in without blessing would prove fatal.”

 

There’s a murmur of approval around the table, the advisors nodding in unison. Peter watches his father’s reaction. He knows that his father does not believe in such things, deems them silly superstitions. Although, he would be foolish to deny that the forest is not entirely what it seems.

 

“Would it be possible to employ a guide?” The King asks. “Someone who knows the layout of the forest, who could lead our men through it.”

 

A few advisors share a quiet conversation, more of a whispered argument. Peter watches them curiously. He has never seen such agitation, such fearful discussion. There seems to not be clear sides in the argument, each advisor switching between the alternative points of view.

 

After several minutes of this hushed back and forth, they come to a decision.

 

“We know of one.”

 

//

 

The man stands with his arms folded across his chest. He is tall with lean muscles. Handsome. Very handsome. Peter finds himself contemplating the curve of the man’s jaw, the plush pink lips. It is rare for Peter to be so enamored by appearance alone.

 

Bronze eyes glimmer like gold in the sunlight streaming through the nearby window. Peter has never seen such eyes. They are hauntingly beautiful, the kind of image that would be retained long after Peter has stopped looking at them. They are old eyes. Old in a way Peter does not quite understand. They watch him, the man’s expression giving away nothing, but those eyes, they appear pained.

 

“Do you know the forest?” The King asks. The man turns his attention to the King. There is no respect in his posture; he regards the King with lukewarm acceptance, seemingly as if he will be polite because he chooses rather than because it is expected of him.

 

“I know of it,” the man replies. There are a few titters in the court. They are quickly silenced by the King’s hard glare. Peter lets a smirk play across his lips. The man catches that smirk. His eyes look pleased.

 

“What is your name?” The King demands.

 

“I have had a few,” The man says, “Most would be hard for a mortal tongue to pronounce. My friends call me Stiles.”

 

“Stiles,” The King begins but Stiles cuts him off.

 

“But we are not friends. And I find this all very dull, so if we could hurry along to what you actually want I would be most grateful.”

 

Peter has never heard anyone speak to nobility this way. As if the King is an irritating fly in a glass of wine.

 

“I will not stand for this insolence,” The King growls.

 

“Well, to be accurate, you are sitting,” Stiles quips. His grin is sharp, his teeth the color of spilled milk.

 

Peter notes how his father’s vein on the side of his neck is beginning to pulse violently. His mother places a hand on his father’s, squeezing gently.

 

“Why am I here?” Stiles asks, “I find this all,” – he gestures to the court with a lazy motion – “very dull. I would prefer if you stated your intentions honestly and clearly.”

 

“We need a guide,” Peter says, intervening before his father makes a fool of himself in replying. Stiles is clearly not of this world, has no patience for dealing with the banality of mortals. Unlike his father, Peter has some respect for the old stories, knows that fae are tricky creatures. It is best not to offend them.

 

“A guide?”

 

Stiles full attention is on Peter now. Peter notes that he is not looked at with indifference. There is a strange mix of pain and hunger. A possessive hunger.

 

“The Beast has been plaguing this kingdom,” Peter continues, “It needs to be dealt with and the forest appears to be it’s dwelling. We have it on good authority that you know the forest intimately and could guide our men through it.”  


“And what would I get in return?”

 

‘The eternal gratitude of the nobility,” Peter says dryly.

 

Stiles laughs. He does so with his whole body.

 

“Who would these men be?” Stiles enquires, once he has stopped laughing.

 

“Our best hunters,” Peter replies.

 

“Are you included?” Stiles asks. The tone is lewd, the smirk even more so. Peter knows that he is attractive, has heard it murmured around the court. However, to be considered attractive by Stiles has more weight. It means more to Peter and he cannot understand why.

 

“What is meant by that remark?” The King snaps.

 

“It means,” Stiles, says slowly, as if talking to someone very dim, “That if you want my help then your son should come along.”

 

“If any of my bloodline should be leading the charge,” The King snarls, “It should be myself.”

 

Stiles raises his eyes heavenward.

 

“I want Peter,” He states, “The alternative, of course, is to let the Beast rampage around your kingdom. I do not particularly care either way.”

 

Peter watches his father curl his hands into tight fists. Peter is an adept fighter, skilled with the sword, quarterstaff and hand to hand combat. Additionally he would not be alone in this venture, they have skilled hunters to accompany them. He sees no reason that he should not be allowed to go.

 

“I need to have a discussion with my son.”

 

//

 

Stiles regards Peter’s horse with contempt. He stands a few feet away, refusing to go near it. Peter finds this very amusing.

 

“Is there a problem?” Peter asks, gripping the reins in one hand and extending a hand to Stiles.

 

“Horses and I do not like each other,” Stiles replies. There’s bitterness to his tone, suggesting a long history of resentment. Peter wonders what exactly happened and promises himself that he will ask later.

 

“Would you propose we attach a carriage for you,” Peter says. Stiles glares at him. Peter smiles winningly in return.

 

“Your highness,” Isaac says, bringing his horse alongside Peter’s. “We are ready to depart.”

 

Isaac is a young hunter, only nineteen and skilled at archery. Peter has watched him hit the center of a target blindfolded. Peter nods to Isaac, motioning him to move along. Isaac goes, joining the others.

 

“Stiles please get on the horse,” Peter says, “Otherwise we’ll be here all day.”

 

Stiles runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. He approaches the horse with caution, mounting slowly and carefully. He slides in close to Peter, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. Peter finds himself enjoying the comfortable weight, the tight embrace.

 

“Was that so hard?”

 

‘Poseidon’s’ beasts are vicious,” Stiles, mutters, “Anything created out of the sea should be presumed to be volatile at all times.”

 

Peter isn’t sure what exactly Stiles means by this remark. The horse tosses his head. Stiles clings tighter to Peter, his face pressed against Peter’s back.

 

Peter finds it oddly charming.

 

//

 

The forest has an ominous presence about it. It is difficult to discern where exactly it ends; it appears to stretch far off into the distance. It is vast and as complex as a rabbit warren.

 

The trees tower over them, larger than giants. Branches sway in the breeze, the sound similar to the rustle of fabric slipping over skin. The day had been a warm one, sun shining bright overhead but now in the shadow of the trees, Peter feels cold. It trickles down his spine, spreading through his ribs.

 

Stiles swings himself off the horse, walking to the tree line. He places a hand on the trunk of the nearest one, sighing softly.

 

The hunters dismount, discussing where best to tie the horses and who should stay behind to attend to them. Peter chooses to wander over to Stiles, allowing Isaac to lead his horse away. Once secured, Isaac joins them by the edge of the wood.

 

Stiles watches the hunters bicker with amusement, the same way foxes watch rabbits frolicking in a field.

 

“Have you seen the Beast?” Peter asks. Stiles raises his eyebrows at the question. Peter doesn’t think it’s such a strange one; in the current climate it seems perfectly reasonable.

 

“Occasionally,” Stiles replies, “I tend to stay out of its way.”

 

“You didn’t think to kill it?” Isaac says. Stiles snorts. Isaac frowns, confused at Stiles indifference.

 

“When you get to be as old as I am,” Stiles replies, sounding both flippant and wise, “you tend to leave violent creatures alone unless they attack you first.”

 

“How old are you?” Isaac asks rudely, evidently thinking Stiles to be very young and haughty.

 

“About as old as my tongue, though a few months older than my teeth,” Stiles says. He waggles his tongue in Isaac’s direction for emphasis. Peter laughs. Stiles’ eyes light up when Peter laughs, as if he is genuinely pleased to make Peter happy. Peter has never found someone so enchanted by the fact that they amuse him.

 

Isaac is not amused. He rolls his eyes heavenward, perhaps seeking strength from God, before walking away to retrieve his bow and quiver. The hunters have gathered their weaponry, left a young squire to attend to the horses. The squire glowers at the older hunters, furious at being left out of all the fun.

 

Stiles regards him with a soft expression, approaching him and bending down so that he may speak to the boy. Peter cannot hear the words exchanged but the boy beams, nodding enthusiastically. He takes something from Stiles, keeps it hidden and holds it close. Stiles squeezes his shoulder like an older brother pleased with the younger.

 

“Lead us then,” Peter says once Stiles has returned to his side. Stiles’ sharp eyes gaze past Peter, to the tall trees beyond. He does not look afraid per say, but there is something in the set of his jaw that Peter cannot name.

 

//

 

The trees are oppressive. They tower on all sides, press in close and more often than not block out the sun overhead. Any daylight that manages to sneak past the boughs dapples the slick muddy ground. The path beneath their feet is overgrown, bracken and brambles cling to their clothes, occasionally tearing the fabric.

 

The flowers that grow here are not friendly. Most poisonous, their vibrant colors a warning of their danger. Foxglove, belladonna, aconite. All beautiful. All deadly.

 

The forest is not silent as Peter assumed it would be. There is the chattering of squirrels, flitting from tree to tree. Birds call to each other, swooping low above their heads, on occasion causing them to duck. Sometimes the undergrowth will rustle, a mouse or rabbit slipping between the bushes.

 

Stiles told them not to stray from the path, that he cannot guarantee that the forest will be kind to them if they do. The hunting party stays close together. Much to Peter’s chagrin, he is forced into the middle so that he may stay protected. Stiles seems to agree with this arrangement and Peter cannot fathom why, as his royal standing means little to him.

 

The path makes all their heads hurt. It is complex; seems to twist and turn in confusing ways. It is a puzzle with pieces that do not seem to interlock. Time is impossible to calculate here. It slips away like grains of sand through one’s fingers. After what seems like both minutes and hours, they reach a small glade where Stiles tells them they can rest for the night. It is refreshing to not be under the trees, to be out in the open and be able to see the stars.

 

Camp is made quickly, firewood collected and food doled out. Stiles wanders the edge of the camp, making a gesture as he goes. When asked by a hunter what it means, Stiles says it wards off evil. He teaches the gesture to anyone who asks, all of them repeating it outside of their tents.

 

Eventually Stiles joins Peter, sitting beside him as the hunters eat. Peter offers Stiles a piece of bread but Stiles declines. Instead he cracks open a strange fruit. It is the color of the setting sun and contains tiny crimson seeds.

 

“Is that from the forest?” Peter asks. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“It is not native to these lands,” He answers. It’s juice trickles down his hands. He laps it, sucking each finger until it is gone. It is an obscene gesture, one that causes a flush to rise high on Peter’s cheeks.

 

Stiles offers a handful of seeds. They are plump and jewel bright. Peter knows it is not wise to take food from a fae, that way they force you to remain with them. Peter pretends that he is too full to eat Stiles offering. He catches Stiles look of disappointment and wishes he hadn’t.

 

Talk turns to the Beast. Rumours of its size, its viciousness, its eyes as red as the blood it has spilled. The crackling fire makes the rumours seem more terrifying, casting ghostly shadows.

 

“Will it find us here?” Isaac asks. Even he sounds nervous.

 

“It does not like this part of the forest,” Stiles replies, “Too much aconite.”

 

“Aconite?” Peter repeats. Stiles nods.

 

“To kill it, it would be wise to coat your weaponry in a mixture made from the plant,” Stiles continues, “And aim for the heart.”

 

The talk turns away from the Beast, the hunters speaking quietly amongst themselves. Peter turns his body towards Stiles. In the firelight, those eyes glow bronze.

 

“Are you fae?” Peter asks. It’s a blunt question but Stiles appreciates honesty. And Peter is not quite sure of what Stiles is. He certainly has the qualities of fae, that feeling of something other. But he is unlike any fae that Peter has heard of.

 

“I am not,” Stiles, replies. This surprises Peter a little, as he was not aware of other types of ‘ _otherness_ ’.

 

“How did you come to be in a forest protected by the fae if you are not one of them?”

 

“The fae know better than to provoke something older and more powerful than they are.”

 

This statement chills Peter. It was spoken with a casual indifference but had an underlying sharp edge. A blade that appears dull in the sunlight but could cut you if you were to trace the edge with your fingertip.

 

“What are you?” Peter breathes. He realizes that he and Stiles have come close together, their thighs touching.

 

“Old,” Stiles teases. But then his voice turns somber. “Powerful but not as powerful as my kinsmen. I come from a land that had great heroes and even greater tragedies.”

 

“Tragedies?” Peter enquires. The sorrow in Stiles tone implies he has suffered a few himself. Stiles stares into the heart of the fire. The flames cast shadows on his face. He looks older in that moment. Ancient and terrible.

 

“Our stories did not tend to end in happiness. Heracles, who went mad and slaughtered his wife and children; Achilles, who lost his beloved Patroclus on the battlefield and in doing so lost his will to live; Medusa, punished for Poseidon’s transgressions, cursed along with her sisters to be a hideous monster.”

 

“And your tragedy?” Peter asks. Stiles smiles. It is a sad smile, one that speaks of centuries of melancholy.

 

“I love someone that my _sister_ deems lesser,” Stiles says, “And so she cursed us both. My lover to forget me and to live many lives. And me to follow them, desperately trying to find them and make them remember.”

 

Peter does not know the proper response to this tale. It is a tragic one, more heartbreaking than the tales of the fae that Peter is used to hearing. Stiles stands, the line of his jaw is tight.

 

“You should rest,” Stiles says, “We will travel into the Beast’s lair tomorrow and you will need your strength.”

 

He turns, walking to the edge of the camp. He sits facing the tree line, with his head tipped up to the sky.

 

//

 

That night Peter dreams of honey wine poured on polished stone altars. He dreams of Stiles red fruit splitting open, crimson seeds and juice spilling over tanned skin. He dreams of freshly baked bread, of diving into the waves under a summer sun. He dreams of bronze eyes.

 

The camp is packed away as quickly as it was erected. Stiles traces patterns in the ashes of the fire with a fingertip, watching the hunters work.

 

Thomas, the oldest and most skilled of the kings’ hunters, has collected the aconite. He pounds it with a pestle, reducing it to a fine powder. Mixed with a little water from a nearby stream, the hunters coat their weaponry in the poison. Isaac sharpens his arrows, the edges glimmering in the sunshine, before dipping them into the purple mixture.

 

“The lair of the Beast is a half day’s walk from here,” Stiles says, wiping the ashes on his tunic. “It may or may not be there. If not, I imagine you will wait for it’s return and spring a trap.”

 

He wiggles his fingers as he says trap, a disbelieving sort of gesture. Isaac snorts derisively. He tilts his arrows in Stiles direction, not in an overly threatening manner but a reminder of Isaac’s skill. Stiles grins, unimpressed with the show of bravado.

 

They set off to the east. The cloying perfumes of the flowers cling to their skin. The trees block out the sunlight, knotting together overhead to keep the rays from peeking through.

 

Occasionally they hear snatches of music, interspersed with the chitter of forest animals. High, musical laughter floating on the breeze. Peter notes how Stiles rolls his eyes when the music reaches their ears. It makes the hunters on edge. Thomas and Oliver flank Peter, sticking close with weapons drawn.

 

The woods grow darker. The silvery laughter fades, replaced with the screech of ravens flapping in the boughs of skeletal trees. The forest had been thick but there was a positive sense of life before. Now the forest is more suffocating. The air is viscous. It’s like wading through a rushing river.

 

“Stay close,” Stiles murmurs, “If you thought the forest before was dangerous, then you would be foolish to assume that this is less so.”

 

Stiles raises a hand and they stop. The hair stands up on the back of Peter’s neck. He keeps his sword drawn, ears listening and eyes watching. Fear uncurls on Peter’s tongue, a sour, copper taste. The Beast reduced sheep to bloody tatters it could easily reduce a man to a smear of crimson on the bark of a nearby tree.

 

Peter’s ears pick up the sound of labored panting, the kind that one usually associates with a large animal. The sound of a heavy tongue lapping at red teeth. The thump of massive paws shaking the ground.

 

It moves into view, a hulking mass of matted white fur, stained with blood and dirt. It moves slowly, licking the remains of its last meal from its teeth absentmindedly. Huge incisors, sharper than the blade in Peter’s hand.

 

Stiles holds a finger to his lips, urging them to duck down into the undergrowth.

 

The Beast continues on, its height knocking birds from their perches. They swarm up into the sky, squawking their displeasure. Once the Beast has slunk away, everyone can breathe again.

 

“Well go on,” Stiles says, reclining on the ground, “Get on with the slaying and so forth.”

 

He gestures in a lazy, disinterest way to where the Beast has gone, leaving a broken trail of branches in its wake. The Hunters ignore him, forming a small circle to discuss strategies and potential plans in hurried whispers. Peter contributes a few ideas of his own. The Beast’s size and strength will be against them. This is not a rabid dog, delirious and foaming at the mouth, a simple target to kill. This is a monster. And monsters are not easily disposed of.

 

Stiles breaks open another scarlet fruit. Peter watches him pop the seeds into his plush pink mouth and wonders if his lips would be sticky sweet. He aches to find out. Wants to have Stiles beneath him, spread out for Peter’s pleasure. Wants him to submit to his Prince, his future King. But now is not the time for such fantasies.

 

//

 

Their planning and scheming crumbles in the face of the Beast. It is a wild creature, strong and angry and unpredictable.

 

Peter wipes blood from his brow, trying to stop it trickling down into his eyes. The Beast roars, one paw sweeping hunters aside with ease. Isaac fires another arrow. It lodges itself in the Beast’s side, buried amongst the matted fur. It only enrages the Beast further, another angry howl.

 

The Beast stalks towards Peter, teeth bared and growling. Peter had not expected the eyes. He assumed by the rumours that they would be blood red but the rumours were wrong. They are more blue than the clearest lake. Bluer than the sky on a hot summer’s day. They are piercing. Haunting. Peter is sure they will haunt his nightmares for years to come.

 

He raises his sword, taking an attack position. He will not fall to this animal. He is a prince, his family was chosen to rule by God. He was trained by the best, he trained hard and excelled. This Beast is no match for him.

 

He runs forward, striking swiftly. He ducks under the Beast’s belly, burying his blade in the thick meat of its thigh. Peter grins at every blow he lands, at every open wound oozing blood. He rolls out from under the Beast, dodging the heavy limbs.

 

The Beast raises a monstrous paw.

 

Peter hits the tree, knocking his head. His vision blurs and his head pounds. He slumps to the ground, blinking repeatedly. His sword is lost. Peter does not now where Isaac is, where his hunters are. Where Stiles is.

 

A hand cups his face, tilting it upwards. Something soft dabs at his cut. Peter winces. Someone sighs above him.

 

“Humans, so fragile.”

 

The comment sounds melancholy but fond. The Beast roars in the background. Peter’s vision has cleared enough for him to see an arrow sticking out of its left eye. It’s a harrowing sight, the Beast whimpering, blood gushing from the eye socket.

 

“That was my last arrow,” Isaac pants from Peter’s right. Peter can sense Isaac kneeling next to him. “Most are injured, some are dead. How will we kill it?”

 

Peter tastes salt in his mouth. He feels as if he is floating whilst also being grounded. Someone slaps him, a sharp, stinging awakening that brings him back to reality. Peter tries to stand but a hand holds him down.

 

“Isaac keep his royal highness from doing something incredibly heroic but also incredibly stupid,” Stiles drawls. Peter opens his mouth to argue, to demand some respect. He stops when he looks up at Stiles.

 

Stiles is in armor but it is not armor that Peter has ever seen. The color of the sun, gleaming and golden. A skirt made of leather. He carries a shield and sword made of bronze. A helmet the hides his face but the eyes remain. They are bright with bloodlust, a warrior’s fury. Sunlight shines around his head. A halo.

 

Peter does not know what avenging angels look like. In that moment, he decides that they look like Stiles.

 

Stiles turns to face the Beast, banging on his shield to attract its attention. The Beast turns its shaggy head, its remaining good eye glaring at Stiles. The Beast charges at Stiles. Stiles leaps straight up, kicking off from the Beast’s head, twirling in midair and landing on his neck.

 

The Beast roars, staggering around and shaking its head wildly. It tries to back up into trees, wants to dislodge Stiles but can’t. Stiles buries his sword deep into the Beast’s shoulder. The sword is sharper than anything Peter has ever seen, it slices through the shoulder as if it is made of melting butter. The roar that follows is almost deafening.

 

Stiles slips from the Beast’s shoulders, rolling underneath to the underside of its belly. He drives the sword straight into the Beasts’ heart, right through the matted fur. The Beast wails in agony, slumping sideways. Sticky, wet blood forms a large pool on the grass. After a while the corpse stops twitching, a shapeless mass of stained fur.

 

Peter blinks and Stiles is wearing simple clothes again. The warrior’s fury has faded from those bronze eyes.

 

“I will attend to our fallen,” Isaac murmurs, dismissing himself. He hurries away, seeking out the hunters who have been injured in the battle.

 

Stiles kneels down beside Peter, reaching up to cup Peter’s face. He strokes a thumb across Peter’s cheek. It’s so tender. So gentle. Peter moves against the hand, nuzzling it.

 

“Stay with me,” Peter murmurs, “Be my knight, my advisor.”

 

Stiles leans down. The kiss is wonderful. It fills Peter with hot, liquid pleasure. He hates to lean back but he still feels a little light-headed. Stiles rests his forehead against Peter’s, a soft, gentle smile touching the corners of his mouth.

 

“It would be my honor.”

 

//

 

Stiles buries his King on a bright summers day, many years later. Another lifetime spent together, another lifetime that Stiles failed to save Peter, failed to reverse the curse that afflicts them both.

 

“Will you find him again?” Isaac asks. He is an old man now, withered and hunched but can still hit a target better than any hunter Stiles has ever seen. Stiles lets Isaac take his arm, helps him from the graveside and down the dirt path.

 

“I will,” Stiles replies. Isaac nods.

 

“Then I imagine this is the last time we will see each other. I wish you the best.”

 

“Thank you,” Stiles says. Both sentiments are sincere.

 

They walk towards the setting sun, the ancient bowman and the immortal God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's Theme: Wild West  
> Expect Porn and Native American Gods- not necessarily in that order


	3. Tonight, I'll Need You To Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two gods of differing pantheons sit opposite each other in a field. 
> 
> Stiles lounges, grass tickling where his clothes do not cover his skin. The sun beats overhead, bright and scorching. The back of Stiles neck feels hot but it is not yet uncomfortable. 
> 
> The man opposite Stiles tilts his head, smiling. He is wearing red, yellow and white paint with black rings around his eyes. His skin is tanned in a way that is different to Stiles. His hair is as black as midnight. Occasionally Stiles will blink and a large spider will appear in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 3 - Regency/Piracy/Wild West (XVIII-XIX century)
> 
> I chose the Wild West because sweaty farm hand Peter is a beautiful image that y'all deserve to think about.
> 
> I used a Native American God in this chapter, Iktomi from Lakota mythology. If this makes anyone uncomfortable then I will use a different God, as I don't want to offend anyone.
> 
> Also I gave you guys Porn to make up for all the angst in previous chapters and angst yet to come.

Two gods of differing pantheons sit opposite each other in a field.

Stiles lounges, grass tickling where his clothes do not cover his skin. The sun beats overhead, bright and scorching. The back of Stiles neck feels hot but it is not yet uncomfortable.

 

The man opposite Stiles tilts his head, smiling. He is wearing red, yellow and white paint with black rings around his eyes. His skin is tanned in a way that is different to Stiles. His hair is as black as midnight. Occasionally Stiles will blink and a large spider will appear in front of him.

 

“Two tricksters opposite one another,” Iktomi says, “Our stories very different. But yet we are similar.”

 

Stiles does not know how to respond, so he stays silent.

 

Iktomi is weaving a dreamcatcher, an ornate spider in the middle. Stiles watches the act with fascination. It is beautiful, more so than anything Athena made, though Stiles would not be foolish enough to say so. However he does not think Athena’s influence reaches this land.

 

“Gods are coming,” Iktomi says. His voice is similar to the clicking of a spider. “Everyday, new gods arrive, brought by the people who come to claim this land. You are not the first. You will not be the last.”

 

“I do not seek to be worshipped,” Stiles replies, “I do not want shrines. I seek a man, an old soul that has seen many lifetimes.”

 

Iktomi hums, still weaving. He is not the first God that Stiles has met in this new land, but the first who might know where Peter is. Stiles does not wish to offend Iktomi, so speaks truthfully. Greece may have changed since Stiles was last there, the honeyed wine on altars drying up, but trickery and cunning deception remain.

 

“He resides in a new settlement to the East,” Iktomi says, “But this is not the only reason for our conversation.”

 

Stiles waits patiently. He changes his posture, sitting up straight.

 

“You must warn your people, the world is changing. This land will not work for the Gods carried over the ocean. The people that come to claim this land will warp it and change it and soon I think this land will not be good for it’s true Gods. Know this, the old world is dying and the one that rises from the ashes might have no need for Gods.”

 

Iktomi smiles at Stiles, handing him the dreamcatcher. It is flawlessly woven, white thread that is soft to the touch.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“For the nightmares,” Iktomi says, “I have a feeling that there will be many to come.”

 

//

 

The town is rickety wooden buildings on a small stretch of land. It would probably only take minutes to walk from one end to the other. Stiles knows that there are farms nearby, probably as rickety as the town. Stiles walks along the dirt road, noting the blatant stares. People are unashamed in their gawking, staring in the way one unusually associates with small children. They continue their conversations, go about their daily business but they watch. Watch and discuss.

 

Stiles ignores them. Almost every town on this Earth has gawped at him, it never bothered him and does not now. He has been wandering for a long time, chasing Peter’s soul across centuries. It slips through his fingers like sand, he can only hold on for so long before it disappears.

 

Stiles heads for the saloon. He’s visited a few towns in this land, trying to find Peter, and the local drinking establishment is the best place to find most of the male population.

 

Inside is dusty and mostly polished wood. There is a bar along the back wall, a meager selection of alcohol behind it. Stiles is certain that honeyed wine will not be served here. A rickety staircase is in the corner, indicating some sort of living space above. Possible rooms to rent.

 

And Stiles guess was correct, here resides the male population of this tiny little town. They regard him with suspicious glances, some more hostile than others. Stiles sighs. Mortals used to give him a wide berth, an instinctual fear of a greater predator. Now, more often than not, they want to engage, challenge him to a fight.

 

It ends with broken limbs and Stiles leaving town.

 

Sometimes Stiles wonders if the rage in their eyes is their own, or whether he can see Ares hiding behind the iris.

 

Stiles takes a seat at the bar, making sure to take a corner so that the wall is at his back and he can survey the whole room. His eyes roam over the pitiful selection. He has time; the bartender is noticeable by his absence.

 

Stiles takes a moment to think on what Iktomi said. He has noticed that he is the only one of his pantheon to make it across. He has come across many deities, from various cultures. They are trying to adapt to this new life, this new way of worship. Stiles can’t remember the last time he felt honeyed wine on his altar, that sticky sweet rush of power.

 

Stiles wonders if he ever will again.

 

Eventually the bartender shuffles into view. He looks like he could have been a tall man but age has made his spine curve. He views Stiles with suspicious eyes, same as his patrons. However he isn’t going to deny Stiles service.

 

“What’ll it be?” He grunts, grabbing a glass and polishing it with a rag that only adds dirt.

 

“Whatever you recommend,” Stiles replies. He instantly regrets saying this, knowing it will lead to the most expensive alcohol. He also knows that it will probably taste abysmal.

 

The whiskey is the color of amber. It pours from a dusty, green bottle that takes a while to retrieve. The glass is pushed across the counter. Stiles lifts it to his mouth and takes a sip. It’s not exactly pleasant but it isn’t awful either.

 

“We don’t get many travellers in this town,” The bartender tells Stiles. Stiles nods and takes another sip. “What brings you out this way?”

 

“Looking for someone,” Stiles says. He notes the rustle of fabric. The low lull of conversation, quiet enough that many can still listen to what Stiles is saying. He may as well address the whole saloon.

 

“You got family out here?”

 

The bartender is polishing another glass for all the good it will do. The dirt lies over every surface, it is simply being moved around.

 

“It’s complicated,” Stiles says. It’s both an answer and not. Stiles has explained his cause to many over the countless years, some sympathetic, some confused, some wondering why Stiles persists.

 

Stiles has long since stopped questioning why he persists. Sometimes he will be too late. Misses Peter by mere seconds. But he carries on, searching and finding and breaking his own heart. He will not ask Olympus for help. The Gods are cruel; find this sort of story fascinating. He imagines that they have made bets on how long he will last.

 

Stiles will never give up looking for Peter. Never give up looking for some kind of way to reverse the curse, some kind of magic that will change the outcome. He is unsuccessful so far but that only encourages him to keep going. He will not let Jennifer win.

 

“Complicated?” The bartender repeats, “Sounds like a lover’s spat.”

 

Stiles throws his head back and laughs. He knows it unnerves everyone in the room but he doesn’t care.

 

“Something like that,” Stiles says eventually. He wipes the tears from his eyes, downs the glass, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat. He chucks money on the counter and leaves.

 

//

 

He finds Peter working as a ranch hand on a farm a few towns over. A more affluent town. The owners are wealthy, have hired people to do their work for them and reap the rewards of others labor. They have a few ranch hands, paid men not slaves.

 

Stiles observes Peter from a nearby tree, watching him work in the baking heat. It is a sight to behold.

 

Peter, muscular and sweaty, stripping off his shirt and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He takes a white china jug from the ground, dipping it into a water trough. Once it is full, he tips it over his head, sighing happily.

 

Stiles nearly falls off the branch.

 

Peter sleeps in a room off the stables with the other workers. His bunk is underneath the window. Stiles watches as he says his prayers, jokes with his fellow ranch hands before falling asleep looking at the stars.

 

The night sky is beautiful here, stretching far and wide. Stiles remembers that night in the field, Peter pointing out constellations and Stiles wanting desperately to kiss him.

 

Stiles sits on the window ledge, watching Peter dream. He wants to lie beside him, breathe in the scent of human and alive. He wants to run his hands through Peter’s hair, kiss his soft lips, reacquaint himself with Peter’s body. It’s a struggle to keep his hands to himself.

 

Peter whimpers in his sleep. His brow furrows. A nightmare perhaps. Stiles wishes he could sooth the pain away. His fingers twitch, eager to help but unable. Peter twitches in bed, as if he’s dropped from a great height and his eyes snap open. Beautiful blue, the color of the oceans off the coast of Greece.

 

Eyes that take in Stiles.

 

“Am I still dreaming?” Peter asks. Stiles smiles, using that utterance as an invitation to reach out and cup Peter’s face. Peter leans into the touch, his own hand coming up to hold Stiles in place.

 

“Why?” Stiles teases, “Do you dream of me often?”

 

“Your eyes,” Peter murmurs, “I know your eyes.”

 

Stiles knows that Jennifer’s curse has flaws. Details slip through, usually in the form of dreams. Peter remembers Stiles eyes now, has spoken of them over the past few lifetimes. It’s comforting for Stiles, feeds the hope that the curse can be broken.

 

Peter pushes himself up, so that they are a breath away from each other. His eyes study Stiles face, a hand tracing the moles, the cut of Stiles jaw. Rough fingertips over the bow of Stiles lip.

 

“I have waited for you,” Peter whispers, “I feel as if I have been waiting a long time.”

 

Stiles kisses Peter then because how can he not. Curls himself over Peter, biting down on Peter’s bottom lip. Presses hope and apologies and love into that kiss. _I’m sorry, forgive me, I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

Peter responds just as hungrily. Hands committing the feel of Stiles to memory.

 

This moment, this quiet moment, is one of simple bliss. Touching and kissing. Soft, hazy breaths. Sweet, gasping moans.

 

They break apart. Press their foreheads together. Stiles is exhilarated, wants to steal Peter away. Find somewhere secluded, take him apart with his hands and his tongue, reteach him the meaning of pleasure.

 

“I do not want to wake from this dream,” Peter admits in a desperate way. “I feel that if I do, you will slip away into the night.”

 

“I promise to be here when you are awake.”

 

It’s a promise that Stiles fears he will have to warp and twist.

 

//

 

Peter works mostly with the horses. The master of the house is a keen rider, usually riding in the early morning or late evening to avoid the heat of the midday sun.

 

Stiles waits in the cool shade of the tack room door, watching Peter get his master’s horse ready. Peter is quick and efficient but it is evident that something plagues his mind. Stiles has some idea what it might be.

 

“Are you ill Peter?” his employer asks, once he has placed his feet in the stirrups.

 

“No sir,” Peter replies. The look he receives for the reply is one of skepticism but ultimately Peter’s distracted mind is ignored.

 

Peter runs a hand through his hair once his employer is gone. He looks a little lost, unsure of what he is experiencing. Stiles takes his silence as an opportunity to step into the light.

 

Peter’s entire face changes when he sees Stiles. Happiness mixed with shock.

 

“I thought that I had truly dreamed all of last night,” Peter says, hurrying forward. He stops just shy of Stiles, perhaps worried that Stiles is a vivid hallucination.

 

“I promised to be there when you were awake, I didn’t specify exactly when,” Stiles counters. He closes the distance between them, grabbing a handful of Peter’s shirt to reel him closer. He wants to taste Peter again, feel the shudder of his kiss. Peter goes willingly.

 

Stiles makes sure to close the tack room door behind them, kicking it with his foot. He presses Peter up against it, kissing him passionately. Possessively.

 

“You’re eager,” Peter teases, pupils blowing wide with lust when Stiles starts mouthing at Peter’s neck. He bites into the thick muscle, ripping aside the shirt so he can access the skin beneath. Peter pants, hips snapping forward to grind against Stiles.

 

Peter slides his hands down Stiles back, pausing at the base. A particularly sharp nip from Stiles encourages Peter to reach lower and squeeze. Stiles grins into the curve of Peter’s jaw, kissing him again and again. Peter’s lips are a little chapped from working under the sun. His skin tastes of salt and earth.

 

“I don’t even know your name,” Peter pants as he pushes Stiles down to the floor, bracing himself over Stiles body.

 

“Stiles,” Stiles replies. It turns into a low moan when Peter grinds their hips together. Delicious friction sends pleasure sizzling through his veins.

 

“I want to fuck you Stiles,” Peter says, nuzzling the hollow of Stiles throat, “Been dreaming of you for so long.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles pleads, “Yes, please, please. Been looking for you Peter. I’m sorry that I was not here sooner.”

 

They shed their shirts, tossing them into a corner. Peter runs his hands over the lean muscles of Stiles chests, fingertips and fleeting touches. Stiles whines, impatient and Peter chuckles.

 

One hand plays with Stiles nipple, the other reaching down to unbutton Stiles trousers. Stiles moans, grinding up against Peter. Peter grins, pressing a kiss that is more teeth than lips against the skin beneath Stiles ear. The trousers are discarded, Peter settling himself between Stiles thighs.

 

He mouths at Stiles erection through the fabric of his undergarments. Stiles’ thighs shudder, spread wider. Peter smirks at him, lust burning in his eyes as he practically rips the fabric away. Stiles erection bobs in front of Peter’s lips, his tongue darting out to lick the tip.

 

“So beautiful like this,” Peter murmurs, “Spread out for me, so perfect. Worth waiting for.”

 

Peter ignores Stiles erection in favor of stripping himself. Then he turns his attention to preparing Stiles for his cock. He starts by pulling apart Stiles cheeks, brushing his tongue against the furled pucker. It’s quick, gentle but makes Stiles feel like he’s on fire with pleasure. He tries to rut back but Peter is kneading Stiles checks, biting into the soft flesh and pressing bruises into the skin. Peter was always fascinated with marking Stiles, demonstrating his ownership of a God and this is something that persists over lifetimes.

 

Stiles has never been above begging to get what he wants.

 

“Please Peter, please!”

 

“So polite,” Peter says, a wicked grin turning the corners of his lips.

 

Peter licks over Stiles hole, circling his tongue around the rim. Stiles thighs shake, whimpers slipping from his lips. High breathy moans. Stiles grabs Peter’s shoulders, a hand slipping to cup the back of Peter’s neck. It’s not forceful, a touch full of affection.

 

Stiles erections throbs as Peter makes him sloppy and wet. Tongue making broad, sweeping strokes until Stiles entrance opens from him and then it slips inside. Stiles has missed this, missed this passion. Missed the feeling of coming undone beneath Peter.

 

Peter kisses him, swallows all his moans. Traces a finger around the wet rim before pressing inside. It isn’t long before Stiles is rocking back and forth on that finger, desperate for more. Peter eases another in, smiling against Stiles neck, biting down on the available skin.

 

“So good,” Stiles breathes. Peter hums his assent, easing in another finger. Sharp inhales and wet, guttural moans fill the tack room.

 

“Be as loud as you want,” Peter says, “Everyone else is in the fields and the household are away.”

 

Peter’s fingers brush against Stiles prostrate. Pleasure is coiling in his gut. He wants Peter inside him and tells him so. Peter finds this amusing.

 

Peter lines himself up, pushes himself in nice and slow, giving Stiles time to adjust. Gods, it is perfect. Peter starts off slow, teasing thrusts that send sparks of pleasure shooting up Stiles spine. Peter spreads Stiles knees a little further apart, watches himself slide into Stiles with a fascination that is three parts lustful and one part awe.

 

“Faster,” Stiles whines, pulling Peter into a sloppy kiss. Peter obliges, rough and demanding. Thumbs dig into the freshly formed bruises. Sweat is pooling in the hollow of Stiles collarbone and Peter laps it up. Hot, fierce kisses follow.

 

Stiles is moaning into Peter’s mouth, fingers pressing bruises of his own into Peter’s arms. His thrusts are becoming more erratic, Stiles knows Peter’s orgasm is building. He clenches around Peter’s cock, dragging him in deeper, pressing closer.

 

Stiles comes, spilling over himself. Peter follows soon after, moaning at the sight of Stiles coming apart. Peter slumps over Stiles body, pressing his face when Stiles neck meets his shoulder. Stiles strokes Peter neck, soft little pets as Peter pulls out.

 

They are sweaty and sticky, bathing in the morning light and the afterglow. Stiles does not know what will follow or how he will fix this cycle of heartbreak. But for now, he can relish in the feel of Peter’s body against his, in lazy kisses. In the hope that a new dawn brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 4 - The first half of the 20th century (WWI-Roaring Twenties-Great Depression-WWII)  
> I went with the 1930's - tune in to see what happens next


	4. Sometime You've Got To Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is grateful for the cool interior of the café. The heat of the Egyptian sun at midday can be overwhelming. Stiles sips his coffee, watching the bustling street. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to slow down, to take the time to enjoy the world around him. He likes to watch mortals being mortals, going about their daily business.
> 
>  
> 
> The market is not far from the café entrance, so Stiles can see the purchases of the day. He particularly enjoyed the three men struggling with an ornate rug, because the man at the front wanted to bring it as a gift for his wife.
> 
>  
> 
> An Egyptian woman comes to the chair beside him. The sunlight is behind her head and for once moment a cat’s head sit upon her shoulders but then she takes a seat and the image is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1930's this time guys - I'm going to warn you, this is very angsty, here are your complimentary tissues - also Qasab is a type of Sugarcane juice

Stiles is grateful for the cool interior of the café. The heat of the Egyptian sun at midday can be overwhelming. Stiles sips his coffee, watching the bustling street. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to slow down, to take the time to enjoy the world around him. He likes to watch mortals being mortals, going about their daily business.

 

The market is not far from the café entrance, so Stiles can see the purchases of the day. He particularly enjoyed the three men struggling with an ornate rug, because the man at the front wanted to bring it as a gift for his wife.

 

An Egyptian woman comes to the chair beside him. The sunlight is behind her head and for once moment a cat’s head sit upon her shoulders but then she takes a seat and the image is gone.

 

“Hello Bastet,” Stiles says. He looks over his shoulder, raising a hand. The waiter rushes over, refilling Stiles cup and asks Bastet what she would like.

 

“Qasab, please.”

 

The waiter nods, excusing himself.

 

Bastet removes her hat, placing it down on the table. Her dark hair is in pinned waves, as is the style of this decade. Painted red lips. She is beautiful and she knows it, she owns it and does not allow anyone to use it against her.

 

“I miss my festival,” Bastet says. This is typical of her, she loathes small talk. Reminiscing about the height of her power has been the topic for a few days, since the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty was signed. Egypt is facing another political change. The old ways slip further into the back of her people’s mind, monotheism having taken hold.

 

Gods don’t rely on belief but it helps.

 

“Mine was the most important,” Bastet continues wistfully, accepting her Qasab from the waiter. “Thank you. The women danced and sang, great sacrifices were made. Kings and Queens would make great offerings personally. It was a good time to be a Goddess.”

 

Stiles nods. He does not know how to console her. He is only a minor god in his Parthenon, barely had an altar let alone an entire festival.

 

“The twentieth century is not designed for us old Gods,” Bastet says. Her tone is melancholic rather than accusatory.

“Christianity seems to have adapted,” Stiles comments, as a white British couple walk past, a gold cross gleaming around the wife’s neck.

 

“Jesus, pah!” Bastet scoffs. She spits out the name as if it is poison. “Lucky son of a virgin. I bet he’s a beggar in the streets of Jerusalem, ignored by his people like the rest of us.”

 

“More than likely,” Stiles agrees. He takes a sip of his coffee. Gods have become relics of a world that most mortals have forgotten. Fairytales, designed for scholars to bicker about rather than the history that it is. Stiles wonders how long they have left before the pantheons give up and return to their private heavens permanently.

 

He hasn’t had contact with Olympus since he was cursed. He’s not sure if they even walk the Earth anymore, he certainly has never seen them. There have been occasions where Stiles thinks he’s seen one of his own. At the base of Petra, a flash of dark hair and a familiar smile. Quickly lost to the crowd. Stiles thinks it was Athena.

 

“They found more of my _artifacts_ at Bubastis last week,” Bastet says, placing her empty glass back on the table. “They will put it all behind glass cases for people to stare at and read tiny descriptions of what they think it symbolizes.”

 

Stiles cannot truly understand her pain, once again he’s a minor god, but he can try to make her feel better. She has been kind to him. She is a friend, a friend who can truly understand what it’s like to be an ancient being in an ever-changing world.

 

“We could go see them,” Stiles suggests, “See what they retrieved.”

 

Bastet narrows her eyes at him, her lips curling. Her grin is infectious. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“That is a wonderful idea,” She purrs.

 

//

 

“GONE!” Bastet yells, startling the other patrons of the museum. “ _What_ do you mean gone?”

 

Bastet is terrifying when she’s angry, eyes glittering with the kind of fury that inspired pharaohs to slaughter the enemy in the way Bastet slaughtered her victims. Stiles stands beside her, folding his suit jacket over his arm whilst the museum curator cowers.

 

“I’m sorry madam, they were transferred to the British Museum two days ago.”

 

Bastet snarls. Stiles puts a hand on her shoulder before the museum curator ends up knowing how much his heart weighs against a feather.

 

“How are we supposed to steal back what was stolen from **my** temple, if it is not here!”

 

“How do you feel about a holiday?” Stiles asks, putting his arm around Bastet’s shoulder. Bastet grins wickedly.

 

//

 

It’s been a long time since Stiles has been in England. The weather is still temperamental though luckily rain threatens but never falls. Bastet, used to warmer climes, does not like the English weather. She dislikes having to put a warm coat on every time they venture outside.

 

“How did this nation conquer half the world?” Bastet enquires as they walk up the steps to the museum. Stiles shrugs. Last time he was in England the fae were prevalent, he killed an omega werewolf and became a King’s consort. His heart twinges at the memory but he’s learned to think on these past lives with fondness rather than angry bitterness.

 

The museum is a pretty building, though the architecture is familiar. Bastet refuses to donate money, grabbing a map and scouring it for her stolen possessions. Stiles notes that there is a section of the museum dedicated to Greece. Bastet catches him staring.

 

“We could go there first,” Bastet says, pointing to the Ancient Greece section with a manicured finger. Stiles smiles. It’s a bit fond, a bit wistful.

 

“Lets focus on raiding one exhibit shall we?”

 

Bastet claps her hands with glee when she sees her beloved possessions, pressing her face to the glass. Stiles stands back, letting her examine what has been recovered. These were dedicated to her, made in her name. She deserves to reminisce, to enjoy without Stiles interfering.

 

Besides, he needs to see what security is in place. He wanders the edge of the room, checking the windows, the routine of the security guards. He smirks when he sees Bastet’s happy expression out the corner of his eye.

 

“Your wife seems passionate,” a voice to the left beside Stiles says. Stiles swings round on his heel. And his mouth drops open. He’s aware that he looks idiotic.

 

“It’s nice to see someone enjoying history,” Peter says, “Most seem to forget how much it can impact the present.”

 

“She’s not my wife,” Stiles blurts. He could punch himself at how moronic that sounded. He has been caught off guard. It’s not that he hasn’t been looking for Peter but after years of being miserable, he decided to allow Peter to come to him. They always find each other, it’s inevitable.

 

Peter looks good. Grey three piece suit, crisp white shirt with a red tie. Stiles takes in the view, trying to prevent a lewd grin crossing his lips. It is difficult, Peter looks really good in a suit.

 

“I’m sorry to presume,” Peter says, bringing Stiles attention back to the fact that they are having a conversation.

 

“Do you work here?” Stiles asks, noting the briefcase in Peter’s hand. Peter chuckles. Stiles has missed that sound.

 

“Sort of,” Peter says, “I’m a professor, my specialty is ancient Greece.”

 

Stiles is proud of the fact that he doesn’t fall over at that. This version of Peter is already fascinating . Stiles knows that he came to England for a different purpose, a job that he does intend to do. Finding Peter is just a happy accident. And well, it will take a few days to form a proper plan for robbing this place, Stiles is more than happy to take Peter to dinner in between.

 

“Ancient Greece has always been a passion of mine,” Stiles says, hoping he doesn’t sound over-eager.

 

“Really?” Peter says. He smiles teasingly at Stiles. Stiles ducks his head, looking up from under his eyelashes.

 

“I really didn’t mean that to sound as patronizing as it did,” Stiles says, “Could I start over? Hello, I’m Stiles.”

 

Peter shakes Stiles outstretched hand.

 

“Peter Hale. Stiles is an unusual name.”

 

“It’s umm… Greek,” Stiles lies. “I am Greek.”

 

Not technically a lie. Not technically the truth either. Stiles has been skating along half-truths most of his life, carefully spun tales to keep people believing the carefully constructed façade that Stiles has put up. Even with Peter, sometimes Stiles hasn’t been entirely truthful. He wants to be. Wants to be able to be honest, to tell Peter the truth from the start but it has been difficult.

 

“Ah, explains the Ancient Greece passion,” Peter teases. Stiles can feel a blush creeping across his face, which he needs to get under control because he has ichor in his veins not blood and his cheeks will start glowing gold.

 

Bastet chooses this moment to appear at Stiles side, smiling warmly.

 

“Stiles, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?” She asks.

 

“Bastet, this is Peter,” Stiles says, in a tone that is meaningful but trying not to sound meaningful. Bastet’s expression suggests that Stiles could have tried a little harder but she extends her hand. Peter kisses it.

 

“I was just saying to Stiles that it’s nice to see someone so passionate about an exhibit,” Peter says. Bastet shares a sly smile with Stiles.

 

“Yes, I have always been fascinated with the goddess Bastet, after all we share certain similarities,” Bastet says. Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing.

 

“Well,” Peter says, a little awkwardly. “I’m afraid I have a few errands to attend to, it was nice to meet both of you.”

 

Stiles panics, unsure of how he can save the situation. Luckily, Bastet is not stupidly in love with Peter, therefore has a clear head.

 

“Here,” She says, handing Peter a business card, “The card for our hotel, Stiles is room 94.”

 

Peter accepts the card, tucking it into a inside pocket.

 

“Perhaps we could have dinner,” Stiles says, “Talk about Ancient Greece.”

 

“I’ll call you,” Peter promises. Stiles catches a glimpse of the smile on Peter’s lips as he walks away; the shy, secret smile that Peter only did when Stiles made him happy. A balloon of hope expands in his chest. It’s filled with butterflies.

 

“You are ridiculous,” Bastet says, linking her arm through Stiles. “Now come along, I need you to help me choose what we’re taking.”

 

//

 

Peter’s office is small and square. His desk sits in front of the window, littered with various papers. Pictures of Greek art and architecture line the walls, except the one occupied by a oak book case. Mostly academic texts or history books. Stiles pulls out one bound in red leather, flipping through the pages idly whilst he waits for Peter to be finished.

 

“Sorry about that,” Peter says as he comes through the door, dumping a new load of papers onto his desk. “Shall we go to dinner?”

 

Peter takes him to a little bistro, it’s quaint with soft lighting and live jazz music. They take a corner booth, the seats are soft. The music means Peter has to duck his head close to Stiles in order for them to be able to hear each other. Stiles grins when he notes that the summer salad comes with pomegranate seeds.

 

“So,” Stiles says, after the waiter takes their order, “Favorite Greek myth?”

 

It’s a safe topic to start with. Stiles assumes the classics will crop up: the Iliad, the Odyssey, Icarus and so on. Peter bites his lip, considering his answer. He takes a sip of wine before speaking.

 

“It’s an unusual one,” Peter says, “Not the most popular, nor the most famous. There was a god, a master of trickery, who was bored with life on Olympus.”

 

Stiles chokes on his wine, spluttering slightly. Not his finest moment. He’s usually a little more elegant around Peter, but this version is managing to trip him at every turn. He waves away Peter’s concern, reluctantly encouraging him to continue.

 

“Anyway, the god, Dolos, spent more time in the mortal realm than on Olympus. And during his time on Earth, he met a young thief at a market and fell in love. The mortal and the god were very much in love with each other so much so that Dolos thought about giving up his immortality. But his counterpart, Jennifer, goddess of Fraud, grew jealous and so she cursed them. The mortal would die over and over whilst the god hunted for their soul and attempted to break the cycle.”

 

“It sounds tragic,” Stiles murmurs, putting down his empty glass.

 

“Most Greek myths are,” Peter says, unfolding his cutlery from the napkin.

 

“Yes, they were a cheerful bunch,” Stiles mutters. He hates being a God.

 

Their food arrives. The pomegranate seeds are a little disappointing.

 

“Why do you like that myth?” Stiles asks. Stiles hadn’t even realized that their story had become a myth. An obscure myth by the sounds of it, but a myth nonetheless.

 

“It’s romantic,” Peter says, taking a bite of his own salad. “Dolos was willing to sacrifice his immortality so they could grow old together. Even after being cursed, he doesn’t give up. Continues to look for his lover. I suppose it’s comforting to believe in soulmates.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says, licking pomegranate juice from his lips, “I suppose it is.”

 

//

 

Stiles spends time with Peter in between planning the heist with Bastet. The heist part is easy, Stiles isn’t the god of deception for nothing. Peter however, is a little more complicated.

 

He’s still Peter. He’s still charming and sharply witty. Still handsome, passionate, clever. But there’s something that Peter’s hiding. Stiles can’t work out exactly what and it frustrates him. Stiles is used to being the smartest person in the room, at least where mortals are concerned and his failure to work out what Peter is hiding gnaws at his gut.

 

“You could just ask,” Bastet suggests as she pours over the list of artifacts. She’s still struggling to pick her favorite item from the collection. They can’t take it all but they can manage a few treasured pieces.

 

“I’m afraid of the answer,” Stiles admits, loosening his tie. He chucks it on the bed, walking over to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a glass of wine.

 

“Perhaps it isn’t as bad as you think,” Bastet says, circling a few items with her pen.

 

“Perhaps,” Stiles murmurs, handing her a glass of wine.

 

//

 

Breaking into the museum is simple. Stiles knows how to pick locks; spent a bored afternoon in Southern Italy, learning how to open several different locks with a bobby pin. They dealt with the alarm system a few days ago, all it took was a simple slash of claws to create a few loose wires.

 

So breaking in. Simple.

 

They sneak along the dark corridors, hiding behind columns when a security guard comes around the corner.

 

The tricky bit comes when they have to remove the glass. Bastet’s claws are sharp, as sharp as Stiles sword but they are not silent. Stiles winces at the screech of her claws slicing the glass apart.

 

Bastet holds the glass, Stiles carefully reaches inside and retrieves the cat statue. It’s the color of midnight in Egypt, moonlight reflecting off the golden eyes. He places it in the duffle bag with great care, Bastet holding her breath.

 

“Careful,” She whispers. Stiles rolls his eyes but refrains from making a sarcastic comment.

 

They make quick work of the rest of the displays, taking the items that mean the most to Bastet. Mostly ornate gold statues, some jewelry, a beautiful gold mask with azure paint around the eyes and a winged cat headdress. Stiles wraps each of the items in paper to protect them as Bastet uses magic to replace the glass.

 

They sneak out down the underground entrance. Once they reach the platform, they burst into giggles.

 

//

 

The news hits the headlines the next day. Bastet cackles, head thrown back and a glass of champagne in her hand, while she takes a luxurious bath.

 

“It’s so easy to steal things,” Stiles says, refilling her glass, “Just don’t be there when the police arrive.”

 

“We could make a living out of this,” Bastet suggests, a mischievous glint in her eye.

 

“Well,” Stiles replies, pouring his own glass of champagne. “If it all goes horribly wrong with Peter, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Bastet says and they clink glasses.

 

//

 

Stiles knocks on the door to Peter’s office but doesn’t wait for a reply. He strides in, planning on treating Peter to lunch and is confronted with a woman standing beside Peter’s desk. Dark, straight hair, dark eyes and high cheekbones.

 

“Is Peter in?” Stiles asks, assuming this woman is Peter’s secretary or something similar.

 

“You must be Stiles,” The woman says. Stiles bristles at her tone.

 

“Must I be?”

 

The woman smiles. Stiles is reminded of Jennifer. That cold, cruel smirk on bright crimson lips. This woman isn’t a Goddess, Stiles would know, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t as brutal as one.

 

“I thought you’d be taller,” The woman comments, eyes raking over Stiles body.

 

“I would have made assumptions about you as well,” Stiles retorts, “If Peter had mentioned you in any way.”

 

The woman narrows her eyes. Stiles feels as if he’s gearing up for battle but instead of armor, it’s sharp insults and one up-man-ship with words.

 

“I’m Corinne,” the woman says, extending a hand. Her nails are shell pink, a large diamond ring on her finger. “Peter’s fiancé.”

 

Ichor drains from Stiles face. Peter’s secret is that he’s engaged. Stiles has always got there first, made sure to make his claim known before anyone can think of laying a hand on him. He’s got there late before, Peter already dead and the soul departed. But never this.

 

He shakes Corinne’s hand, refusing to show weakness. It’s a tense handshake, as if Corinne is trying to crush his hand. Stiles doesn’t need to show his strength, he could easily break her hand. He chooses not to.

 

Peter enters as they let go of each other’s hand. He pales, looking like a child that’s been caught cutting a slice of cake before it’s due to be served as dessert.

 

“Corinne,” Peter says, voice strained, “What are you doing here?”

 

“I came to visit you at work dearest,” Corinne replies. Peter’s expression implies that pet names are a fairly new event in this relationship. There’s no love here that’s for certain but even so, Stiles feels sick. He coughs awkwardly.

 

“I should go.”

 

Stiles pushes past Peter, walking quickly down the hallway. He refuses to cry. He should have expected this, knew that at some point he might have to compete with potential significant others. Stiles mouth tastes bitter.

 

“Stiles wait!”

 

Peter claps a hand on Stiles shoulder. Stiles rounds on him, furious at Peter for failing to mention a fiancé. For allowing them to grow close, enjoying each other’s company. For letting Stiles believe that maybe Peter knew who he was, wanted to rekindle their love over this lifetime.

 

“You are betrothed,” Stiles, hisses, pushing Peter against the wall and boxing him in. “You are intended to be married and I am not the type to share.”

 

“It was arranged,” Peter says, bitterness coloring his tone, “Neither of us had any say in the matter.”

 

“Oh and it just happened to slip your mind,” Stiles scoffs. Peter has the sense to look ashamed. Stiles pushes off the wall, standing a few feet away from Peter.

 

“I can’t do this,” Stiles says, “Not right now, I can’t.”

 

He starts off down the corridor again, his throat feeling as if he is swallowing broken glass.

 

“I know who you are,” Peter shouts. Stiles stops. He turns slowly. Peter looks distraught. He looks as if his heart is being ripped out and is bleeding all over the polished wood floor. Stiles doesn’t want him to feel this way, never wants to hurt Peter.

 

“What?”

 

“I have dreamed of your eyes since before I can remember,” Peter says, walking towards Stiles. “Of honeyed wine on marble altars. Of the sea off the coast of Corinth. When I found that myth I had a feeling that it was about me. Some translations name the mortal as Peter.”

 

Stiles can’t breath. The air has been sucked out of his lungs.

 

“There is no way to break this curse,” Peter continues, “I have done research, scoured every text, ever translation, written an entire thesis. There is nothing we can do.”

 

Peter cups Stiles face, wiping away at the tears streaming from his eyes. Stiles wasn’t even aware that he was crying.

 

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the lifetimes,” Peter says, “That we can’t be happy with what we have. I remember a little more each lifetime, I’m sure of it.”

 

Stiles kisses Peter. Slow and sweet. Wistful. Full of heartbreak.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, “Not this time. I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Keep losing you. I need to find a way to break this curse, I’ve put it off for far too long.”

 

Because Stiles can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep pretending that this is going to sort itself out, that the power of love will prevail and the curse can be defeated by being pure of heart and doggedly following Peter’s soul around the world. Stiles needs to stop running from his problems and face them head on.

 

Peter clutches at Stiles arms, attempting to keep him from leaving but Stiles pushes him away easily. He’s out the front door before Peter can make it to the end of the corridor.

 

//

 

Bastet hands Stiles a glass of wine, leaning against the balcony edge. Stiles keeps his gaze ahead, staring at the setting sun and the sprawling city. Cairo is beautiful at twilight.

 

“How will you break the curse?” Bastet asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, “Jennifer is unlikely to be forthcoming and I haven’t seen any of my kin for decades.”

 

“Will you seek them out?”

 

“Possibly. I haven’t been back to Greece in a while, I doubt they’ll be singing my praises.”

 

“Well,” Bastet says, raising her glass, “You will always have a friend in me, if you are ever in need of one.”

 

Stiles smiles.

 

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

They clink glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Desert Wolf's name is Corinne which I totally missed in 5B but whatever  
> Tomorrow - Contemporary - A few old friends pay Stiles a visit


	5. Spend Your Life Just Thinking Of How to Get Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three Gods walk into a bar. To Stiles it sounds like the start of a terrible joke. Unfortunately this is his life. When he reached out to his brethren, decades ago, he honestly expected another minor God to reply. Perhaps if he was lucky, Hestia would reach out. If Stiles is completely honest, Hestia is the goddess he misses the most. She gave up her position for Dionysus, always kept the fire of Olympus alive. She always had a soft spot for all the Gods, always a kind word and a warm meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 5 - Contemporary  
> This chapter is a little shorter this time around but the next two will definitely be longer

Three Gods walk into a bar. To Stiles it sounds like the start of a terrible joke. Unfortunately this is his life. When he reached out to his brethren, decades ago, he honestly expected another minor God to reply. Perhaps if he was lucky, Hestia would reach out. If Stiles is completely honest, Hestia is the goddess he misses the most. She gave up her position for Dionysus, always kept the fire of Olympus alive. She always had a soft spot for all the Gods, always a kind word and a warm meal.

 

Stiles was not expecting three out of the twelve Olympians. Aphrodite, crimson hair in a messy bun, dressed in a floral skirt and white blouse. Athena, leather jacket and jeans, her dark hair in soft waves. Ares, in what looks like an expensive designer suit, his cheekbones as sharp as Stiles remembers. It’s been a long time since Stiles has seen any of his kin on Earth.

 

“Stiles,” Aphrodite says, “It is good to see you.”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and snorts.

 

“Really?” Stiles questions.

 

“Is it so hard to believe?” Athena says, pulling a chair out for Aphrodite before taking one herself. Ares clicks his fingers, a nearby waiter springing to attention and taking his order.

 

“You took your time,” Stiles comments, taking a sip of his beer, “Doesn’t exactly scream, dying to see another one of your Parthenon.”

 

“There have been world wars,” Ares says snidely, “Some of us have been busy.”

 

“Ares,” Stiles says, pointing directly in Ares face, “You can fuck off if you’re not going to be helpful.”

 

He notes the mild wince of disgust on the Olympians faces. Swearing was considered barbaric when they ruled, not something that Gods should ever lower themselves to. The modern age is a little more liberal with cussing and well, Stiles has found it can be used to express his feelings in a very accurate way.

 

“It’s Jackson now.”

 

“What?”

 

“We changed our names,” Athena explains, “Trying to fit in with the changing world. Allison, Lydia, Jackson.”

 

She points to everyone in turn. The waiter appears, placing glasses of honeyed wine on the table. Stiles frowns. That wasn’t on the menu. Though he supposes the Olympians still have no trouble getting what they want.

 

“You came to America,” Allison continues, “It is.” She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “Difficult for us to come here.”

 

“Difficult?”

 

“This place is a hellhole,” Jackson growls, “Our influence is weak, no-one has dedicated a battle to me in decades.”

 

“Boohoo,” Stiles says, pretending to cry, “No one has dedicated a battle to me. Jeez get over yourself.”

 

Jackson makes a move to stand, rage in his eyes, but Lydia places a hand on his arm, forcing him to sit down. Stiles smirks, drinking his beer. Getting under the War God’s skin was always fun for Stiles. Jackson makes it so easy.

 

“The modern world is not built for Gods. At least, not built for those of the ancient world,” Lydia says, gesturing to the bar as if it personally offends her. “America is a godless place, long abandoned by its own Gods. It is not good for us here.”

 

This Stiles knows. Iktomi is long gone, in fact all the Gods have abandoned this land. It is godless and barren. Like most of the world these days. Few places remain spiritual, few places remember the old ways. It’s not hard to see why the Gods are leaving, returning to their private heavens.

 

Bastet retired in the 1980’s, too weary with an Egypt that had long since abandoned her. She wished him the best with his curse and gave him one of her black cat statues to remember her by. It was a small one, easily made into jewelry. He has it on a golden chain around his neck.

 

“So you finally made it across,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair, “Hopefully with a solution.”

 

“We spoke to Zeus,” Allison says. Stiles frowns. Not necessarily unusual, Zeus is the head honcho so to speak. Allison sprung from his head one day, it would be a little weird if they didn’t speak to each other.

 

“And?” Stiles prompts.

 

“Zeus is willing to grant Peter immortality,” Lydia says, “Provided that you lift the curse first.”

 

The bottom drops out of Stiles stomach. He feels a little lightheaded. There’s a chance for this to end. For Stiles to stop chasing. To slow down, spend eternity together. To finally be truly happy.

 

“So I just have to lift the curse?” Stiles asks.

 

The Olympians share a look. To be precise, Lydia and Allison share a look, Jackson just looks bored.

 

“Jennifer is undetectable,” Lydia says, “And Hecate can only give us the spell ingredients not the wording of the curse itself.”

 

“So you made me wait several decades,” Stiles says, slamming the empty beer bottle on the table. “To tell me you have fuck all. Jeez I knew this was a waste of time.”

 

“Stiles,” Lydia protests but Stiles is already standing. He hates himself for being hopeful, for thinking that the Olympians would actually solve a problem instead of creating ones. There’s always a fucking catch.

 

“Fuck off back to Olympus,” Stiles says, “If you actually have something of value to tell me, give me a call. Otherwise I don’t want to fucking see you.”

 

//

 

The doorbell rings. Peter looks up from his book, checking the clock on the mantelpiece. He knows Stiles is meeting some Gods today, trying to find a solution to Peter’s _affliction_. Peter snorts at that.

Peter is disappointed in Jennifer. Whatever she used to block his memories finally broke down this time around. Admittedly it was a cause for concern when he was younger, dreaming of Stiles and countless lifetimes together. It did make history lessons remarkably easy however. And well, when Stiles did finally show up, it felt good to be able to give him this. To be able to remember him with clarity, with affection.

 

The doorbell rings again. Stiles has a key to their apartment and his _family_ wouldn’t come here. Would they?

 

Peter marks his page, putting the book on the side before going to door. A blonde woman is standing there, dressed in a USP uniform. She’s balancing a bunch of packages on one shoulder, holding a cream envelope in the other. She is also, for some reason, wearing cerise pink rollerblades.

 

“Hi,” She says brightly. Peter wasn’t aware that they had ordered anything. Though Stiles adores the Internet and is sometimes a little overzealous on Amazon. They didn’t need Star Wars bed sheets but now they have them.

 

“Hello,” Peter replies slowly.

 

“I’m looking for Stiles,” the blonde woman says.

 

“Right.”

 

“Is he in?”

 

“No,” Peter says, “He’s out, can I help?”

 

She looks him up and down, smiling in a knowing way.

 

“Can you give him this?” She says, handing him the cream envelope. “Tell him it’s from Erica. I mean I’d wait around, but I’m a busy God.”

 

She points to the packages as if to say _what-can-you-do_.

 

“Sure,” Peter says. “Wait God?”

 

“God?” Erica questions, looking confused. “Pretty sure I said gal, dude. I’m a busy gal. Speaking of, I got deliveries to make. See ya.”

 

She rollerblades away backwards, waving at Peter as she goes. It becomes more impressive when the elevator at the end of the hallway opens and she zooms straight into it.

 

Peter is pretty sure that Stiles isn’t that much of a show off.

 

//

 

Stiles groans into the pillow. The image of Peter is printed on the back of Stiles eyelids, a constant reminder of the lives he has watched unfold and his failure to fix it. Fucking Olympians. He feels the mattress dip, a hand coming to stroke his hair. Stiles flips over so he can see Peter’s face. Peter smiles at him, bending over to kiss Stiles gently.

 

“I take it there was no perfect solution,” Peter says, cuddling up to Stiles. Stiles holds Peter close, breathing in the scent of the city on Peter’s clothes.

 

“Zeus is willing to grant you immortality,” Stiles replies, “If we lift the curse. But Jennifer is AWOL so we’re right back where we started. And Zeus is notorious for being a grade-A dick so he may not even come through on his promise if we lift the curse.”

 

Peter hums. Stiles buries his face in Peter’s neck, just wanting to hide from the world for a little while.

 

“My work is having a party tonight,” Peter says after a few minutes of silence.

 

“If you’re asking me to be your date then yes,” Stiles replies, “If that was just general information about your life then I hope you have a good time.”

 

“Of course you’re my date,” Peter says, shifting out of Stiles arms. Stiles whines, making grabby hands so that Peter will come back but he doesn’t. Stiles pouts. He crawls down the bed, letting his head hang down off the end. He gets an upside down view of Peter stripping off his jeans. It is a wonderful view.

 

“Why do you even work anyway?” Stiles whines, “You’re dating a God. We could stay in and have sex. I could eat you out so that you could ride me. Sounds like a much better evening than pretending to care about your stuffy lawyer nonsense.”

 

“One,” Peter says, retrieving a cream envelope from the dresser. “You’re a minor god.”

 

“Ouch,” Stiles says, clutching his chest. “That was cold.”

 

“Two,” Peter continues, bending down to Stiles eye level. “I was working there before you turned up in this lifetime. I can’t quit because you want to have sex all day.”

 

“Don’t front,” Stiles says, “We’ve had noise complaints, everyone knows how much you love having sex with me.”

 

Peter grins wolfishly, placing a sweet kiss on the end of Stiles nose.

 

“Here,” Peter says, placing the envelope in front of Stiles face, “This arrived for you today. A blonde woman named Erica dropped it off.”

 

Stiles grabs the envelope, rolling over onto his front. He doesn’t know any Erica. Shrugging, he sits up, crossing his legs. He slides his thumb into the corner of the flap, dragging it along to rip open the top. A sheet of paper is inside, something scrawled across it. Stiles thinks he recognizes the writing

 

“Holy Zeus,” Stiles murmurs, tracing the letters with a finger.

 

“What?” Peter asks, sitting beside Stiles on the bed to read over his shoulder.

 

“It’s Jennifer’s last known address.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 6 - FUTURE
> 
> Check ya later Steter fans


	6. Long Live The Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gasps, clawing his way up the beach. He feels soggy and a little sandy. He manages to stand up, flicking seaweed off his head. Ogygia is a picture of paradise. Sandy beach, palm trees swaying in the breeze, the beautiful blue sky overhead. 
> 
> Stiles rubs salt water out of his eyes. He really wants curly fries. And maybe some vodka to burn away the salt-water tang in his mouth. He spits onto the beach but the taste remains.
> 
> “Hello Dolos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUTURE!!!! - Not as futurery as I had originally planned but ya know, it still counts

**TWO YEARS LATER**

 

Stiles gasps, clawing his way up the beach. He feels soggy and a little sandy. He manages to stand up, flicking seaweed off his head. Ogygia is a picture of paradise. Sandy beach, palm trees swaying in the breeze, the beautiful blue sky overhead.

 

Stiles rubs salt water out of his eyes. He really wants curly fries. And maybe some vodka to burn away the salt-water tang in his mouth. He spits onto the beach but the taste remains.

 

“Hello Dolos.”

 

Stiles looks up. Calypso stands a few feet away, her golden hair shining in the sun.

 

“Where is Jennifer?” Stiles growls.

 

“She is waiting for you in the glade,” Calypso says, gesturing to a copse of palm trees behind her. Stiles goes to stalk past her but Calypso raises a hand to make him pause.

 

“I have spent two years looking for her,” Stiles says, “Do not stand in my way now.”

 

“I simply ask that you try not to destroy everything,” Calypso says, “This is my home, I would prefer if you didn’t wreck everything in sight.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, pushing past her. The glade is as picturesque as the beach. The sunlight dapples the wild grass and wild flowers. Jennifer is waiting for him. She looks the same as she did that day years ago, graceful and determined. Stiles is going to rip her apart.

 

“Now Stiles I know you’re upset,” Jennifer begins.

 

Stiles punches her in the face. Hard. She goes down easily, clutching her streaming nose. Stiles grabs the front of her dress, pulling her up.

 

“Upset,” Stiles snarls, “ _Upset_! I am way past upset.”

 

Stiles punches her again and again. Ichor soaked knuckles. The crunch of bone. Pained whimpers. He drags her along the ground, hauling her up against a tree, his hand around her throat. Jennifer spits ichor on the ground.

 

“Now we can do this one of two ways,” Stiles says, squeezing to make sure he has Jennifer’s full attention. “One, you life the curse right now. Or two, I keep beating the shit out of you until you agree. Personally I’m favorable to two but I’m allowing you to make a choice.”

 

“Don’t you want to know why?” Jennifer says. Her voice rasps like sandpaper on metal.

 

“I literally do not give a fuck why you did it,” Stiles replies. And he really doesn’t. Whatever bullshit excuse Jennifer has, he’s not interested in hearing it. He wants his life back. He wants his lover back.

 

“You have to know why,” Jennifer insists. Ichor coats her lips. They glimmer in the sunlight.

 

“I think that fact you’re a horrendous bitch pretty much covers it.”

 

“Stiles, please” Jennifer pleads. Stiles grimaces, letting go of her throat. He punches her in the face once more for good measure.

 

“Speak,” Stiles spits. Jennifer props herself up against the base of the tree, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

“They liked you better,” Jennifer mumbles. Stiles rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time for this. He can’t believe he’s thinking this, but he would really like to be languishing on Olympus right now. Feeding pomegranate seeds into Peter’s mouth. Licking away the sticky sweetness. And then moving on to lick other things.

 

“Hurry this up Jennifer,” Stiles says, “Otherwise I’ll find a use for your head. A doorstop maybe. Or one of those fancy glass paperweights.”

 

“They liked you better,” Jennifer, snaps, “I knew that if you had reached Zeus’s temple that day, he would have granted Peter immortality.”

 

It’s entirely possible that Jennifer is lying. Trying to prevent Stiles from doing more damage to her face. She’s the goddess of fraud; it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility. But her bitterness. Her anger. That feels genuine.

 

“I wasn’t going to ask him to make Peter immortal,” Stiles points out.

 

“Does it matter?” Jennifer scoffs, “Zeus would have offered it to you, you would have been foolish to turn it down.”

 

“And this upsets you, why?”

 

“Because it wasn’t fair,” Jennifer snarls. Tears are threatening to leak from her eyes. “Why should you get to keep your mortal, when I didn’t get to keep mine?”

 

“What?” Stiles says. Now he’s completely lost.

 

“I fell in love,” Jennifer says, wistfully. “She was a warrior queen and she was _beautiful_.”

 

For a second, she reminds Stiles of when they were children. But then her eyes darken once more, the line of her mouth turning cruel and hard.

 

“But Zeus didn’t like her, refused to grant her immortality. I had to watch her die, unable to stop it and unable to reach her in the Fields. I wanted someone else to suffer the way I suffered.”

 

Stiles was going to beat her to an inch from death before. Now he’s actually going to murder her.

 

“ _Jealousy_? This is what all this bullshit comes down to. I had to watch my soulmate die over and over again, unable to stop it because you were **jealous**.”

 

He can feel the familiar weight of his sword in his hand. He swings it round, pointing it at Jennifer’s throat. He uses it to tip her head up, so that she’s forced to look him in the eye. Anger boils in his veins, white hot like lightening.

 

“I should fucking kill you,” Stiles says. Jennifer smirks. Ichor is starting to drip into her eye from the cut above it.

 

“You should but you won’t,” Jennifer says, “You need me to life the curse. And I won’t lift it unless you bring Kali to me.”

 

Stiles lowers the sword.

 

//

 

Stiles pulls the makeshift raft into the harbor, ignoring the look from puzzled fishermen. Lydia and Peter wait on the dock. Lydia looks nervously excited. Peter looks nervously concerned.

 

Stiles stomps up to them, muttering angrily under his breath. Jennifer and her schemes. She’s going to lose an eye for this.

 

“What happened?” Lydia asks.

 

“I have to talk to Hades,” Stiles snaps.

 

“Actually he goes by John now.”

 

“I literally do not care!”

 

//

 

“The entrance to the underworld,” Peter says, “Is an antique book store?”

 

Stiles snorts at Peter’s incredulous and slightly dismissive tone. He can see why Peter’s a little disappointed. The shop looks like it hasn’t left the 1800’s. The windows are dusty, the merchandise all leather bound with faded gold lettering. It’s tucked between a nail salon and a restaurant that advertises that plate-throwing night is Thursday. Stiles throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, using his other hand to gesture to the battered sign.

 

“What exactly were you expecting?” Stiles asks.

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“I don’t know, a funeral home perhaps? Doctor’s waiting room?”

 

Stiles laughs so hard that a few tears escape his eyes. He wipes them away, kissing Peter on the cheek.

 

“This is why I love you,” Stiles declares.

 

“Really?” Peter says dryly, “The filthy sex has nothing to do with it.”

 

“If we could return to the matter at hand,” Lydia cuts in. Stiles nods. Getting into the underworld isn’t going to be easy. Firstly, Stiles isn’t dead. Secondly, Stiles is a God and Hades isn’t really a fan of other gods coming onto his turf. Thirdly, Stiles bears no resemblance to Persephone and whilst he could put a sheet over his head, no matter how hard he could try to convince Hades’ lackeys that he got stung by a million bees and is too hideous to look at, Hades himself probably won’t buy it.

 

“So,” Peter says, “How do we get in?”

 

“Excuse you,” Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest, “How do I get in? I’m not taking you to the land of the dead. What if Hades is like ‘ _ah you, the one that got away, there’s no escaping me now!’_ and you end up stuck there forever. _”_

Peter opens his mouth, presumably to object but Lydia speaks first.

 

“We are waiting on your escort,” She says. Stiles isn’t sure he’s too fond of her tone.

 

“Escort?” Stiles repeats.

 

“That would be me.”

 

Stiles turns his head. A blonde woman is leaning against the entrance to the bookstore, in a UPS uniform and pink rollerblades. She grins at Stiles and then he knows who she is.

 

“Hermes?”

 

“Actually I go by Erica now,” Erica corrects, gliding over to Stiles. She grabs him around the middle, spinning him round in a tight hug.

 

“Wow ok,” Stiles says, when he’s back on the ground. “Wasn’t expecting the spinning. Or the hug.”

 

Erica looks a little disappointed at that, it only lasts a second but Stiles sees it on her face and feels guilty. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

 

“Well,” Lydia says, stampeding through the tense atmosphere, “Let’s get a move on shall we?”

 

Stiles nods. He turns to Peter, pulling him forward by the belt loops into a heated kiss. He pours all his love into this kiss, makes it sweet and hot and full of everything he doesn’t have the nerve to say. Peter responds eagerly, gripping Stiles hair to keep him in place a little bit longer. Peter growls when Stiles tries to pull away, nipping at Stiles lip and soothing the sting with his tongue.

 

Stiles is eventually yanked away, Erica looping her arm though his and dragging him backwards through the shop door.

 

Inside is dusty. Thick tomes line the shelves, their titles faded or missing altogether. The air is musty, like mothballs left in the back of a wardrobe for years. It hits the back of Stiles throat making him cough. Erica glides up to the counter, where a bored looking godling sits, tapping away at his phone.

 

Erica produces a clipboard from nowhere, turning to wink at Stiles. His arms fill with heavy packages and he nearly trips over a box of books on the floor.

 

“Morning Charon,” Erica says. Charon looks up, blowing a apple green bubblegum bubble.

 

“Erica,” Charon says. His voice is monotone. Grating. “Who’s your friend?”

 

“New assistant,” Erica replies, watching Stiles struggle to keep the packages balanced and in front of his face to hide it. Hades will probably know that Stiles is entering his realm but it would be easier if they could at least make it to the palace.

 

Charon makes a non-committal noise. It implies that he’s not paid enough to care about Erica does. He goes back to his phone, chipped aquamarine nails tapping away.

 

“You know where the service elevator is,” Charon says, lazily gesturing behind him. He blows another bubble.

 

“Cheers,” Erica says, putting up finger guns and winking.

 

Stiles follows her down the corridor behind the counter. She presses the button for the shiny gold elevator at the end. It arrives in a matter of seconds. Inside is all mirrors and chrome fixtures. It even has cheery elevator music. Stiles is pretty sure only high class establishments have elevator music. He rocks on the balls of his feet, occasionally humming only to sections of the music as they descend.

 

“Did you miss us?” Erica blurts. Stiles freezes. Erica looks down at her feet. Stiles carefully places the packages on the floor so he’s actually looking at her.

 

“Yeah, occasionally,” Stiles answers. He did. Mostly at night, when he was alone. No Peter, no friends, no family. Nothing. Just Stiles and the stars.

 

“I know you think we hate you,” Erica says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Or that we didn’t care.”

 

“I didn’t think that,” Stiles interrupts. Erica smiles at him sadly.

 

“I know you did. But we were always rooting for you. Occasionally pushing you in the right direction. Making sure you were ok. Pretty sure Hera tried to make Zeus murder like every person who hit on you ever via lightening because she didn’t want anyone messing with this epic love story.”

 

“Hera, really?”

 

“Oh yeah, she is on team _Stiles &Peter _hardcore.”

 

Stiles laughs at that. It’s an amusing notion, Hera always expressing her distain for mortals openly and loudly.

 

“We didn’t interfere because we didn’t think you’d appreciate the help,” Erica continues, “But we always wanted you to win. Jennifer banished herself to avoid the wrath of many gods.”

 

Stiles looks down at his hands, not sure what to say. He doesn’t know if words are appropriate, if anything he says will ever truly describe the love that he feels. Olympus never really felt like a home, more like a collection of people forced to be together and making the best of it. Parties and decadence to avoid talking about their feelings. Now, with the Olympians at his back, Stiles feels like maybe, just maybe, he could become part of a something good.

 

“When did the Gods learn how to be a family?” Stiles asks.

 

“When family was the only thing we had left.”

 

//

 

Erica pushes him out of the elevator when it reaches Hades palace. She gives him a big thumbs up as the doors close.

 

Hades palace is less a terrifying diamond structure like Stiles assumed it would be and more a soft wooden house, painted sunshine yellow. It sits on the top of a hill covered in wild flowers. There’s a soft breeze that carries the scent of fresh pomegranates and despite it being the underworld, there’s a blue sky above. Clouds drift leisurely across.

 

Stiles can see the vague shape of Hades sitting on the porch. So he begins the climb.

 

He makes it to the top, sweating a little. Hades smiles at him, a warm, almost fatherly smile. He points to the wicker chair beside him. Stiles smiles in return, flopping down and wiping his brow. Hades pours him a glass of pomegranate juice, sliding it across the small, white wood table between them.

 

“Thank you,” Stiles says, tacking on a belated, “Sir.”

 

“You’re welcome. And just John is fine.”

 

Stiles nods, downing the juice in one gulp. It’s refreshing, wonderfully sweet.

 

“So John,” Stiles says, “I guess you know why I’m here.”

 

John nods, leaning back in his chair. Stiles remembers him vaguely, often not at the parties Zeus used to throw. When he was there, Demeter would be glaring at him and drinking wine angrily. John would be ignoring her, happy to talk to Hestia, Poseidon, Hermes or his wife. Occasionally, he’d bring his hellhounds, Derek, who would sit in the corner looking awkward, and Jordan, who usually got fawned over by the Muses.

 

“So,” Stiles says, “I guess you’re not just going to hand over a random soul from the Fields.”

 

“Usually,” John says, “I wouldn’t. But in your case, I think you deserve a break. And Claudia would never let me here the end of it if I made you suffer more than you already have.”

 

Stiles almost collapses onto the ground. John smiles at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

 

“A lot of us have a soft spot for you kiddo,” John says, “And even on Olympus we liked you. You were a good kid, a little mischievous and you stuck your nose in everyone’s business but you were good. You managed to get Derek to actually talk at a party once rather than hide behind a pillar and glower.”

 

Stiles laughs. He remembers that. He was starting to get a little bored of Olympus parties and decided to annoy Derek. Derek growled at him, threatened to rip his throat out with his teeth, called him a moron twice but cuffed him on the back of the head affectionately when he left. Stiles is counting that as a win. He met Peter shortly after that. He wonders if Derek still remembers.

 

“I wanted to help,” John continues, a little somberly, “tried to hold onto Peter’s soul for you but that damn curse made it slippery.”

 

“I’m touched that you tried,” Stiles says. And he is. Affection blooms in Stiles chest, warm like a fire on a winter’s night.

 

“There is one thing you can do for me,” John says. All the hair on Stiles body stands on end. John laughs at Stiles expression.

 

“Relax kid, it’s nothing too bad. Just, visit me from time to time. The rest of our pantheon is under the impression that they’re not welcome here. It can get a bit lonely when Claudia is topside.”

 

“Visiting,” Stiles says, “I can do that. I suppose now would be a good time to say you’re invited to the wedding.”

 

“Wedding?” John repeats, grinning.

 

“Well, I haven’t asked him yet,” Stiles admits. “And we have to lift the curse first. And I’m pretty sure Lydia is going to hijack it and we’ll have a very lavish Olympian ceremony. But yeah, you’re invited. And, I don’t really have many friends.”

 

“I think you have more that you think,” John says. Stiles chuckles.

 

“Yeah I guess I do. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d be my best man.”

 

“I’d be honored,” John says.

 

There’s a howl in the distance.

 

“That will be Derek and Jordan,” John says. They stand, Stiles sticking out his hand so they can shake. John sweeps him into a hug.

 

It’s nice.

 

//

 

“That’s a jar,” Stiles says.

 

Derek rolls his eyes. He is standing stoically in the background. Well he thinks, to Stiles he just looks like he’s looming apologetically.

 

“A jar with your insane sister’s warrior queen in it,” Jordan corrects. He tries to hand Stiles the jar again. It’s pulsating an angry green. Stiles really doesn’t want to take the jar. The jar looks questionable.

 

“She’s not my sister,” Stiles says, grimacing.

 

“Haven’t you heard, we’re one, big happy, if incredibly dysfunctional family,” Derek drawls. Stiles flips him off.

 

“You’re sure this is Kali?”

 

“It’s Kali,” Derek growls, “Take the damn jar.”

 

Stiles accepts the jar. Gingerly.

 

Jordan squeezes his shoulder. Derek cuffs him on the back of the head. With affection.

 

//

 

Jennifer waits on the shores of Ogygia. She stands proudly, head high. The wind makes her hair ripple, her white dress swirling around her ankles. Stiles steps off the raft. The sand is warm beneath his feet.

 

“Break the curse,” Stiles says. Jennifer raises an eyebrow.

 

“What no small talk?” She teases.

 

“Break the fucking curse already,” Stiles snaps, holding the jar aloft. “Otherwise your warrior queen is going to the bottom of the ocean.”

 

Jennifer’s face twitches.

 

“Fine,” She spits.

 

She snaps her fingers, chanting a few choice words, her eyes glimmering a faint purple. It’s over in a matter of seconds.

 

“Was that it?” Stiles growls. All the heartache, the pain, the years of suffering. Reduced to a bit of chanting and a finger snap.

 

“The curse was breaking down anyway,” Jennifer snaps, “There was very little to undo. Now give me Kali.”

 

Stiles tosses the jar to her. She catches it, holding it up to her eyes.

 

“I know you didn’t do this for me,” Jennifer begins. Stiles cuts across her immediately.

 

“Literally none of this has been for you, I don’t want your gratitude.”

 

Jennifer shrugs, doesn’t bother to continue her sentence. Too busy staring at the soul spinning in the glass jar.

 

Distracted.

 

Vulnerable.

 

The jar lands in the sand, bouncing a few times and rolling to a stop. Jennifer screams. Stiles yanks the bronze knife out of her left eye. Ichor gushes from the wound. Jennifer sinks to the ground, clutching at the wound. Ichor spills over her fingers.

 

“That’s going to take a while to heal,” Stiles says conversationally. “I mean if it heals at all. Hecate is the one with actual magical skill. Maybe if you’d been better at spell casting, you would have been able to do more damage. But hey, we’ll never know.”

 

Stiles walks down the beach, hopping back onto his raft.

 

“Oh, one other thing,” Stiles calls over his shoulder, “You’re **_not_** invited to the wedding.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is a free-for-all so guess what kids??? 
> 
> NEXT STOP OLYMPUS


	7. Kiss Me On The Mouth And Set Me Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lydia get off me,” Stiles growls, trying to get away from her as she attempts to get him into a laurel crown. “Peter is not going to care what I look like.”
> 
> “I care,” Lydia snaps, clicking her fingers. Erica, Allison and Bastet appear from nowhere, holding Stiles in place. Stiles struggles but it’s all in vain. The laurel crown is on his head.
> 
> “Now stay still,” Lydia instructs, “And stay perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme 7 - Free for all  
> So y'all got a wedding and a porn - enjoy my little Steter munchkins

“Lydia get off me,” Stiles growls, trying to get away from her as she attempts to get him into a laurel crown. “Peter is not going to care what I look like.”

 

“I care,” Lydia snaps, clicking her fingers. Erica, Allison and Bastet appear from nowhere, holding Stiles in place. Stiles struggles but it’s all in vain. The laurel crown is on his head.

 

“Now stay still,” Lydia instructs, “And stay perfect.”

 

“I hate you,” Stiles mutters. Lydia kisses his forehead.

 

“No you don’t.”

 

She leaves the room, the Muses trailing after her, deep in discussion about song choices and first dances.

 

Bastet hands Stiles a glass of honeyed wine. He accepts it gratefully. This whole day has been a nightmare. Stiles has been poked, prodded, dressed, undressed and all sorts of other unsavory nonsense. He just wants to marry Peter, he doesn’t need any of this extra ridiculousness.

 

But try telling that to Peter. He and Lydia have clearly conspired together against Stiles to draw this out as long as possible. He wants to be married already. Married and languishing somewhere. Preferably ravishing Peter.

 

“Patience,” Bastet says, patting Stiles on the shoulder. “You’ll be married soon enough.”

 

“You lot are conspiring against me,” Stiles mutters, downing his wine. Erica chuckles, hopping over the chaise lounge to sit beside Bastet. They’ve become quite a pair, Stiles is glad that he introduced them.

 

“You could always have been a maiden god,” Allison teases, refilling Stiles glass. The three goddesses burst into laughter. Stiles glowers at his wine glass.

 

//

 

The wedding goes off without a hitch, which Lydia takes full credit for. There are several whoops and hollers when they kiss, Peter dipping Stiles and ravishing his mouth.

 

It’s not a bad celebration all things considered. The wine flows, the music is actually something from this century and Peter whirls Stiles around the dance floor with the skill that Stiles just never learned.

 

“You’re a god who followed me across lifetimes,” Peter says; hand on the small of Stiles back, “And you never learned how to dance.”

 

“I was busy with other things,” Stiles replies, “And we have the rest of eternity for you to teach me.”

 

Peter smiles at that, a soft, glorious smile because for the first time they do. They do have eternity.

 

Lydia demands that she dance with Peter so Stiles gracefully bows out, sitting by a pillar with a beer. John comes to sit beside him.

 

“You did good kid,” John says, tilting his own beer in the direction of Peter. Stiles grins.

 

“Damn right I did.”

 

They sit in silence for a little while, enjoying the company and the view. Bastet has managed to get Derek to dance with her, coaxing him slowly out of his shell.

 

“You did tell Jennifer that Kali’s soul was on temporary loan right?” John asks, “I’m sending the furies to collect it tomorrow.”

 

Stiles tries and fails to stop the grin spreading across his face.

 

“You know, it may have slipped my mind.”

 

Stiles bites his lip but the laughter wiggles it’s way out. He throws his head back, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder. John pretends to look very serious about Stiles forgetfulness however it only lasts a few seconds and then he’s laughing too.

 

By then end, a lot of couples have snuck off to make out in shadowy corners so Stiles decides that it’s his and Peter’s turn.

 

“Come on,” Stiles murmurs in Peter’s ear, “Let’s consummate this marriage.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Peter replies.

 

They can barely keep their hands off each other. Stiles has to stop to rip off the bloody laurel crown because there is no way in hell that he is wearing it during sex. Peter laughs, falling back on the bed whilst Stiles wrestles with it.

 

“Oh shut up,” Stiles mutters, yanking Peter towards him and kissing his wine stained lips. The kiss is glorious, full of years of love and affection. It’s a kiss with purpose, intensity, Peter’s hands coming to Stiles hips to pull him closer. Peter nips Stiles bottom lip, tongue slipping into Stiles mouth.

 

Stiles climbs onto Peter’s lap, straddling his hips. They grind against each other, still kissing. The friction is delicious, pleasure tingling in Stiles veins. Stiles moves to biting marks into Peter’s neck, ensuring it is clear to all who Peter belongs to. Peter moans happily, fingers trailing down Stiles back to squeeze his ass.

 

“Possessive,” Peter teases. Stiles growls, sucking another mark into the soft skin at the base of Peter’s ear.

 

“You’re mine, no one is taking you from me again.”

 

Peter grins, flipping them over so that Stiles is beneath him. Stiles smirks, hooking a leg over Peter’s hip to drag him closer, arching his body up so he can feel Peter rut against him. Peter leans down to the taut line of Stiles throat, making marks of his own. Scraping teeth and sucking hard, grazing over Stiles pulse.

 

Stiles touches as much of Peter as he can get. _His husband_. His immortal husband. It’s a wonderful thought.

 

“I need you naked,” Stiles demands, “Right now.”

 

“Bossy.”

 

Clothes are quickly discarded. Stiles grins against Peter’s skin, biting the lobe of his ear as he ruts their hips together. Peter’s grip on Stiles hips is going to result in bruises but Stiles doesn’t care. Peter pushes Stiles back down onto the bed, pinning him in place and biting down on Stiles nipple. Stiles tries to buck up, rub against Peter but Peter won’t let him. Holds himself just far enough away. Stiles whines. Peter chuckles.

 

Peter licks down the soft hair trailing down from Stiles belly button. Stiles erection is leaking. It throbs when Peter looks up at Stiles with dilated pupils. Peter slides a hand down, light, teasing touches. It’s tantalizing, Peter’s fingers gentle and sweet, up and down Stiles cock. Peter loves watching Stiles come apart beneath him.

 

Peter pushes two of his fingers into Stiles mouth. Stiles mouths at the pads, suckling on them. He gasps when Peter’s other hand digs a fingertip into his slit. Peter lets go, bringing that hand to his mouth to lick Stiles precum off of it.

 

“I think you should ride me,” Peter says conversationally. Stiles nods. He is so down with that.

 

“You gonna work me open,” Stiles says, voice already wrecked. “Make me nice and sloppy and wet for your dick.”

 

Peter growls, kissing Stiles fiercely. Stiles breaks away to grab the lube from the bedside table. Peter takes it from him, coating his fingers. The slick sound shouldn’t be arousing to Stiles. His dick disagrees.

 

Peter palms the smooth skin of Stiles ass, rubbing at his entrance. He slides his fingers back and forth, barely there touches that leave Stiles gasping and desperate.

 

“Don’t tease,” Stiles pants.

 

“When have you known me to tease?” Peter asks, mock offended.

 

Stiles growls, reaching down to rub his thumb over the head of Peter’s cock. Peter shudders, bucking his hips forward.

 

“I need you to fuck me,” Stiles says, “Like now.”

 

“Patience,” Peter says, kissing Stiles petulant look off of his face.

 

Peter slides two fingers in. It’s slick and slow. Within minutes Stiles is rocking on Peter’s fingers. Peter adds another, the rhythm becoming faster. Peter crooks a finger, smirking smugly when he hits Stiles prostrate.

 

“Now, now, now,” Stiles whines. He flips them over, so that Peter is beneath him. He holds Peter in place, sinking onto Peter’s dick with a soft sigh. He settles himself, rolling his hips. Peter’s hands twitch, as if he doesn’t know where exactly he wants to put them.

 

Eventually Peter settles for gripping Stiles hips. Stiles rolls his hips again, rising up and sinking back down. Peter groans, softly and drawn out as if Peter has been denied this particular pleasure for decades. Stiles adores that sound. Peter pushes his hips up to meet Stiles rhythm, a quick, hungry pace.

 

Stiles thighs are quivering. Stiles is moaning, continuously, Peter eating them up with sweet kisses.

 

“God the sight of you,” Peter murmurs, voice thick with arousal, “Never going to get bored of looking at you bouncing on my cock. So perfect.”

 

Stiles is getting close, can feel the way it builds in his gut. Their grinding is sloppy now, both chasing their orgasms. Peter grabs Stiles dick, twisting and rubbing his thumb over the head repeatedly. They come together, Stiles reveling in the hot, wet pressure of Peter’s lip against his own.

 

Stiles slumps over Peter, nuzzling against his neck. He wants to curl up here for a while, breathing in that sweat and sex smell. He eases himself off of Peter’s dick, falling to one side. Peter tilts Stiles head up so they can exchange lazy kisses.

 

“I love you,” Stiles murmurs.

 

“I would hope so,” Peter replies, “Otherwise this soulmates deal would end rather sourly.”

 

“Don’t ruin the afterglow,” Stiles grumbles, kissing Peter again to wipe the smirk off of his face.

 

“I would never,” Peter says. Stiles rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. Stiles grins against Peter’s skin whilst Peter pets the back of Stiles head. This is it, he’s won. He has his soulmate and a potential family. Stiles has never been happier, it sings in his veins.

 

“I love you too,” Peter says, after another round of leisurely kissing. “In case you hadn’t gathered.”

 

“Forever?”

 

“Forever.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and the support and just everyone who has always had my back. And a special shoutout to Nezstorm AKA Bxdcubes AKA Mar - I don't think I could be where I am in the Steter fandom without them, they are kind and supportive and just a beautiful human being. Thank you for your support babe and for organising Steter Week 2016


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